Fantasy
Which way is North?
Which way is North? To start again. The tiny group of people stood in a huddle waiting for the sun to rise, they wait silently and with a stillness that only experienced hunters can achieve. They are on the top of Glastonbury Tor, the rising sun will show them directions, since the ancient words they followed said the sun was from the east. From this they could select their path for the day. All around the ancient Tor is black water, thick with reeds and mud. Emerging from the waters are the ruins of a world that had once been so sure of its future, so certain of its ability to master nature and so careless about its past.
By Peter Rose3 years ago in Fiction
Paradiso
The plan had been to die there, in paradise. It had been two years and six months to the day according to the etchings Polly had made on the walls inside her concrete box. One small line with every new sun. Inside of her tomb she had a small mattress that was nailed to the floor, a toilet, a tiny slit at the bottom of the wall where once a day one orb of something edible slid through and an aluminium vase that contained one stem of what she supposed was once a bouquet of orchids. The stem hadn't been watered in the time that she'd been there yet was as alive and living as it was the first day she woke up in the box. There was no door but one wall had a large convex window made of some reinforced material that had been heavily tinted so as nothing apart from the light of the sun and the moon could be seen from inside. In times of desperation she had tried to smash it with her hands and her head to no avail other than leaving a few tiny scrapes that could be wiped away with saliva. Above the window there was an ornate inscription in the concrete that read, 'Paradiso'. This, she assumed, was some sort of feeble attempt at humour by her captors. She'd imagined so many times whoever it was laughing as they hammered a chisel into the wall with extreme and delicate precision. Two years and six months, a long enough period of time that Polly had lost all hope of ever escaping her grey prison. On that 913th day as she sat against the back wall nibbling on the tasteless round thing that had slid through into her box she was surrounded by a great light so magnificent that it blinded her. Her brain fizzed and her ears rang with a screech of a thousand pigs at the slaughterhouse. She curled up in a ball and fumbled her way to the corner, scratching at the mattress praying for it to absorb her like some dried up bed bug. There she lay waiting for the sickness to pass. The screeching in her ears dissipated to a low hum and the fire balls that were her eyes began to cool as her brain began to recognise true sunshine again. She pulled herself upright with the help of the wall and rubbed at her eyes seeing the concrete room for what felt like the first time. The convex window was glowing a bright white as if the dark tint that had been there for two and a half years was suddenly ripped of like a band aid. She took slow steps toward the glow and saw tiny shapes starting to form as she got closer, tiny shapes turning into big shapes turning into buildings and trees. Her stomach flipped with vertigo as she realised that her concrete box was so high off the ground that the street below looked like a penciled line on a piece of paper. She fell back onto the cold ground and hugged her legs, shaking with fear and confusion. She didn't recognise the city in front of her. Was it her city? Was it where she once worked? Where she loved and played? She tried so hard to locate the memories of the alien place but found nothing. She cried and in a fury threw herself at the window, yelling and screaming and scratching hoping for someone out there to see her, to look up and see a woman trapped in a concrete box and call the police or rouse the cavalry. Anything would do, she just wanted saved. With energy depleted she slipped back down to the floor. Her filthy clothes soaked with a salty lament she saw movement from each side of the plastic bubble. She pressed her wet face against the curvature of the reinforced material and saw that there were hundreds of windows on a concrete wall. Bubbles in rows like hives and behind each an insect like her, all simultaneously coming to the same realisation.
By Kris Platt3 years ago in Fiction
THE BARBARIAN & THE KING
T he ring in the curved steel as it cleared the scabbard spoke to the quality of the blade, the glare from the morning sunlight striking its edge spoke to its sharpness. The steam of his breath spoke of the coldness of the air. The speed of his movement spoke of the hone of his reflexes. The stare in his cold grey eyes spoke of his determination. The stance in his lean but powerful form spoke of his skill as a warrior.
By Grant Kininmont3 years ago in Fiction
The New Eden
“You can keep staring at it, Evangeline. It’s never going back to the way it was before.” “Nathaniel, my dear friend, that kind of eternal optimism is why I’ve kept you around all these years….” I turned to face my friend with a smirk, one eyebrow cocked so he could sense I was only half-teasing with my sarcasm.
By Jessie Waddell3 years ago in Fiction
The Apprentice
“AVARANTHA!” the old wizard yelled, tracing a circle in front of him with both hands. The monster stopped in its path suddenly, claws held out in mid-air, frozen in time, the air around it shimmering with powerful magic. Its great bloodshot eyes darted around the room, searching for whatever was holding it back.
By Keenan Cronyn3 years ago in Fiction
Sew Connected
Art has always been my passion to the point that I even teach it. Many of the things I know it's from experimentation and teaching myself, which is something I try to teach my students everyday. I don't do just one type of art, I do any and everything I can get my hands on. When it comes to textiles the only thing I knew when I first started out was to just try it out and if it didn't work try another way. I started off sewing by hand until my now husband bought me my first sewing machine. I struggled learning how to use it for a long time, but now I usually don't have any problems.
By Aquamarine Fox3 years ago in Fiction
Pandora's Boon
He was standing next to the rusting pumps when he saw the figure shimmering like a mirage in the distance across the ash belt. The pumps hadn’t pumped in years. Not since his grandfather’s time, or so he had been told. He never knew his grandfather. He only vaguely remembered his father. His mother had lived longer, but then the toxicity of ‘The Fission’ had taken her too. He watched the flesh melt from her bones and, when she passed, she felt like a feather in his arms as he laid her in the dusty grave next to the man she had loved.
By Al Campbell3 years ago in Fiction
Manchurian Vaccinate
By Devin Bailey Part 1: The End Begins “It’s been a long week dude,” said Mike greeting Wayne at the door. Since the pandemic began, visits between good time buddies are few and far between. An endless stream of misinformation, political unrest, and general melancholy rolls over the American public and the new normal is just a blurred image on the horizon.
By Devin Bailey3 years ago in Fiction
The empty time
The empty time. After the revenge. The wind is the only thing that is moving. The sky is blue and the sun bright; as if the universe is mocking what is left of humanity. I have crept unwillingly, from my makeshift bed and gazed across the silent town. To escape the stench and probable disease, from all the rotting remains of thousands of human bodies, I have set up camp across the valley in the uninhabited industrial park. No industry now, no anything now, or ever again; it is like looking at a painting that surrounds me a full 360 degrees. I am seeing all, but also taking in so little. It is incredible; almost all humans wiped out in such a short time. Before the news channels faded out they had been reporting the same incredible scenes of destruction, the same mindless killing of any and all humans from all round the world. An orgy of bloodletting and murder. If there is anyone to write a history of the end of humanity, they will claim that it had only taken twenty one days from start to finish. This is not really accurate since the origins of the death and destruction were put in place over several weeks, before the terror was actually unleashed. I guess that much of the history I have ever learnt, is similarly light on factual accuracy.
By Peter Rose3 years ago in Fiction
Ashes
A thick fist, pummelled against the side of a cheek in a roaring backlash, sending the young girl crashing through the space around where she once stood. At first, she was blinded by a haze of her own outstretched limbs, but a more urgent blindness ensued as her head hit the cobblestones and a crimson pool began to stream around her. Tori had expected the pain, it was something she was used to, having lived too long on the streets. “This is the third time in as many weeks," an accusatory figure bellowed at her from high above where she lay "Try to steal fro’me again scum and by the sovereign, you'll wish you were dead."
By Jackson James3 years ago in Fiction