Horror
Almost There
The boy stopped, holding his fist up to signal for the girl to do the same. She did so, gladly. Her feet burned as if on fire, cuts and bruises covering almost every inch.
Blake AnglinPublished 3 years ago in FictionGrounded
Teleportation was a public relations nightmare for eight years before it entered mass production: ripped torsos, missing fingers, bodies remapped on top of each other. It’s a miracle that it ever caught on, but Oracle still stipulates that more Americans die in hovercar accidents each year than teleportation malfunctions.
Meghan CookPublished 3 years ago in FictionGod of Pain
Twelve seconds. That’s how long I made it yesterday. Nine seconds the day before. Eight the day before that. Progress, I keep telling myself. Something to hold on to. A number. A goal. A motivation. To live. To kill. A motivation is a heart that beats. A single drop of blood that can be pushed all the way to one little, middle finger, to deliver that final ‘fuck you’ to the eyes of anyone who was sick and twisted enough to still look anymore. To watch. I could feel their eyes on me. The sick bastards. Or bitch? Guess I might like that. No. Remember. One more ‘fuck you’. That would be good enough. For now.
Matt OwensPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Scream
From behind my eyelids the sun colored my dreams in red. The man was screaming, arms outstretched in my direction, behind him a small boy with curly hair with a look of fear on his face mouthed the word “Momma”. When I opened my eyes they were gone, replaced with the debris and dust and myself amongst the rubble. I sat up, a searing pain spread from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. I instinctively touched the top of my head , a warm thick liquid oozing out. My legs were pinned by a large pile of concrete and it appeared that I was in some sort of crater of wreckage , a bomb maybe? where is everyone? am I the only survivor ? Taking a deep breath I tried to steady my nervous heart, being alone and wounded is not the time to panic, or at least that’s what I had been taught. I? I thought to myself. The next question I asked myself brought on a bigger sense of panic, Who am I ?
Veronica leePublished 3 years ago in FictionTrue Love
It was during the time of The Virus and the world had already turned upside down. He knew that was no excuse but he couldn’t help himself; he had no choice but to use it to his advantage. He spotted her on the subway getting on at St. Patrick Street and wondered if she was on her way to work or if she had some business in that neighbourhood. So many offices were dark and abandoned, their polished lobby floors the delight of the cleaners that could admire their handiwork without the mobs of boots splashing their trails of salty, grimy snow across them.
Julia AbelsohnPublished 3 years ago in FictionReflections at the End
The coming dawn released me from my torpor. It could always find me, the sun, even down in my anchorhold. It simply FELT red, like a bite of a warm berry.
Guenneth SpeldrongPublished 3 years ago in FictionHeart-Shaped Locket
The horizon glowed a sickly pale yellow as the dying sunlight touches a sea of spores congealing along a baleful skyline, obscuring the roads, decorated with bones of all who failed to escape. From the outskirts of a city, long dead and overtaken by the spores, a man enters, alone. Prepared for the unforeseen doomsday, the man had built a bunker in his basement, seal-proofed to prevent radioactive contaminants, supplied with oxygen tanks to ensure years of survival, and hazard suits that would allow him to venture outside, if he needed to. Living alone in a bunker out of reach of the spores, out of reach of the world. This was not what he had pictured it would be like. He could never have guessed the form of which the end of the world would take, but at one point, he thanked God for surviving. Now, he cursed him. In his mind, he had been left behind. He was alone.
Cooper ChapmanPublished 3 years ago in FictionPoppy, hand me that locket, dear!
Act One Tim drummed on his desk with the fingertips of his left hand while he waited for the webpage to load. His other hand contained a silver heart-shaped locket, the protective coat had begun to wear and the metal underneath was tarnished. After gently scrubbing the surface using baking soda and an old toothbrush, Tim had switched on his desktop to investigate its origin.
Shazia CopleyPublished 3 years ago in FictionHeart to Heart
Every day is the same. We wake, we eat what we can, and we run. The world outside is twisted and changed. Our family is gone. Our friends are gone. In their place are hundreds of leering, rotting faces that yap and bite, desperate for a taste. Nowhere stays safe for long. Each night when we finally find somewhere to rest, I feel my wearer’s heartbeat jump and stutter at every noise outside. Her body strains underneath me to hear whether it is just noise, or the tell-tale footsteps of an approaching monster. It takes longer and longer each night for her heart rate to subside, and the rise and fall of her chest settles into a steady, soothing rhythm.
Ashlyn TeggPublished 3 years ago in FictionAnd so, I dream...
And so, I dream of my love. I look at her heart swinging from the shell tube of my shotgun. Not her actual heart, her heart shaped locket. The one she kept a photo of us in. Now it is sealed in black electrical tape to hold in the drops of her blood I collected after she was gone. I tap it and it swings free but concealed in its cover. No shine, no sound. No problem.
Steven ParkerPublished 3 years ago in FictionFrom the voice journal of Emily B, New Era 437
This is it, the last piece. This small piece of jewelry resting on my palm is the last remnant. It’s shaped like a heart and made from sterling silver, though the metal is now encrusted with rust. When you click on the tiny button in the corner, a small mechanism opens it up to reveal a photograph. I don’t want to talk about the photograph. I’d rather forget about it, but I can’t, no more than I can bring myself to throw the locket away, no more than I can fully let go of the past.
Merrill BecksteadPublished 3 years ago in FictionMOTHERSHIP
The old homestead was twenty-five miles north of the New Highland Garrison. An hour’s drive through the scalded stretch of woodland tracks that scattered the northern hillsides, so she told him. She was much older now yet still retained those distant memories of a life long ago, before the coming of the great, black eye and the culling of humankind. She remembered the preeminent strike upon the cliff of battle, and over the edge. She remembered the mighty fall and what fears she felt when the destruction of the MOTHERSHIP was set and the world plunged into darkness, the darkness that grows darker still. She pointed to the weathered map, on an insignificant blotch drawn next the abandoned highway.
Aden HalseyPublished 3 years ago in Fiction