Microfiction
a visit via dream
Walking into my family's trailer, I smiled as I counted all my brothers; laughing, wrestling, drinking soda and beer and just enjoying each other’s company. My nieces were all spread out in the room, watching the window as it snowed large dry flakes. With how it stuck to the ledge, they were grinning as we were getting ready to be snowed in. Despite the cold outside, inside the trailer was warm. Bobbing and weaving through all the cheerful people, I found my spot to rest.
By Jennisea Standing Rock2 years ago in Fiction
Family
The child kept fussing, but it was not hers to comfort. She just gave birth to it. She only had a few days with the baby before they took the child away to the community nursery where all infants went three days after birth. Pediatric Carers would take care of the infants until they could walk. Then they went to the toddler houses where they were cared for by “Preschool teachers” twenty-four hours a day. Children were not raised in families and no one had parents anymore, not since the revolution. By the time they were five years old, they lived in large dormitories and were taught by the Resident Teachers.
By Terri Kalloch2 years ago in Fiction
Adventures of Oahron (prologue)
Preface This story is based off of the starting point of a sci-fi fantasy war story I wrote some years ago. I am taking the beginning portion of an early draft of my book and splitting it into short stories (probably 3 short stories) based off of my main character Oahron in his early childhood. This is an ongoing draft and may be a bit jagged and in need of editing. Please show support for this project to help support a bigger work based on these promotional stories I will be sharing freely online.
By Netanel Lynn2 years ago in Fiction
Before The Sleep
You could slice the tension in the air with one razor-sharp claw. She raises one, as if to do just that. It's curved, like her mouth. All those teeth! Bright white and so very long, like frost-glazed midwinter nights. Their points carry venom, and the promise of festive red splashes. Wine on snow. She hasn't taken her eyes off him for a second. Her talons click, patient and forboding, then clatter in a vicious cacophony when she skitters sideways, lightning-quick. She could've had him then, if she chose. She was a whisker's breath away. To open one flank would've been easier than pushing a hot knife through brandy butter, and twice as satisfying. He didn't even flinch. His eyes drill right into hers, past her claws and fangs. Like a sportsman, or a poker player, he relies on those flinty orbs to tell him her next play. Which way she will lunge and how. He takes a step forward, panther-like and silent. The Mariah is a noisy beast, with her clacking talons and chittering teeth. Like a rugby player, or a furious kitten, she spreads herself wide and makes lots of noise to intimidate her prey. Their fear is a feast to her, as much as their bones. This one, though, is completely unafraid. Silent, too. If not for the subtle steam coming off him, you could believe he was hardly even there; a wisp only, a shadow, a ghost. As like to melt into the surrounding pines as the snow itself. You won't hear him coming, not a peep, until he's right behind you, crooning your death knell into your ear. He brings near-human heat to her reptilian chill. One wonders if the Mariah has finally met her match. The Bublé smiles a glacial smile, and it begins. Are they battling for mastery of seasonal caterwauling, or just for mere sport? Is it to the death? Is there a carnal element? And if there is, will either survive it? Will she be reduced to a puddle under his onslaught; will his wool coat be soaked and darkened and tacky with the fount of blood from his yawning neck? Will her bones and scales crack, will she swallow his head whole like a bitter pill (I have a headache darling). We can never know the ways of these creatures. One thing we can be sure of: there will probably be lots of blood. Lock your windows, then. Don't peep out the gap in the curtains. Just sit tight and let them come to their own understanding, out there in the snow. After, one of them will retreat back into the ice for the ten month Sleep.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
365 Writing Strips One Bare. Top Story - December 2024.
She hadn't married him for looks, because he was most unsightly. She married him for his brain. Theirs was a marriage that was the opposite of the cautionary tale of those who marry their "one true" trophies for looks.
By Gerard DiLeo2 years ago in Fiction
The Counter and the Coal
Not even otherworldly reindeer who fly are undying, and Dasher and Artist and Prancer and Lady, Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen were stories of Christmas mornings that had since a long time ago happen. Rudolph himself lived seventeen years: a good life expectancy for the typical hostage reindeer. In no way, shape or form a supernatural occurrence. Except if such a reindeer was among the fortunate not many to be housed in that frame of mind of a certain, southern toy shop. These reindeer would in general be more limited lived than most. Each Christmas a couple of St Nick's reindeer would miss the mark concerning the necessities expected to zoom all over the planet. This was not an incredible cumbrance to the actual mission. St Nick's brain was however sharp as his tummy seemed to be round, and he realize that the reindeer who couldn't last the excursion would be dead or near it once they arrived at Russia's nose, which seems to be that of an elephant seal. Then it would be set for The Frozen North. St Nick's sled, short a few reindeer, would fly across the Bering Ocean as leisurely as the petrels. Men on modern fishing boats would look into, point, and shout. Then they'd joke that Christmas would require an augmentation. It won't ever do. In the inside of Gold country, there carried on with a man of gigantic cash and very little riches, and individuals who realized him had named him the Counter. The Counter resided in a frail shack, where he slumped in his work area before the hearth, endlessly counting the cash he'd made off his reindeer the earlier years. 43 years, to be careful. At the point when the fire consumed low in order to make this cycle troublesome, he would get a piece of wood, throw it into the hearth, and his unending count, until he'd come to accept that the actual cash was the wellspring of his glow. Yet, until he could stand to purchase such a reality, somebody actually needed to slash the kindling. This somebody was a little fellow, an offspring of the clans who, a long time back, had been purchased with the Counter's cash. Or on the other hand rather, the dangers that would in general go with it, as certain as the obliteration that goes with a fire. The Counter enlightened him nothing regarding his legacy, other than the account of how his kin consumed the cash that had sold his actual life. They threw the rolled up bills — precisely 25 bucks — into the flares that cooked their meat. The kid got the feeling that his lord thought them fools for this. He, at the end of the day, didn't.
By Parmesh Patil2 years ago in Fiction
The Unexplored world
The obscure man lies dead in the outbuilding for three days, and on the fourth we cover him. We attempted to cover him previously yet needed to pause, the ground was so difficult. Gunne, who attempted to dig the plot in the graveyard not too far off, says breaking ice with a toothpick was like difficult. So we hold on until the Walk defrost liberates the ground to the point of uncovering cold earth for a resting place. We needed to do everything right, lay him there with every one of the customs and petitions and everything, as though he had been our own dear sibling. The subsequent evening, the air is cool and clean, blowing in from the South, where they have been having summer rains as of now. The icicles dangling from the rafters and windowsills are trickling and falling consistently to the ground, to soften and evaporate for eternity. The sky is dull with storm mists, assembled like a wrap into the great beyond, and the breeze smells sweet like wet earth and honeysuckle. The house behind me is land and sparkling and loaded up with lighthearted giggling; foregetting stresses over a round of cards is simple. Be that as it may, I step outside, shoeless on the ice-fragmented ground, and go to see the body. Mother told me not to, yet I can't resist. I need to see with my own eyes. Indeed, even on a ranch, with livestock; debilitated cows, fatted pigs and hens, sheep prepared to butcher and sell, it is my most memorable brush with death. Livestock don't pass on; they have forever been intended to kick the bucket thus their consummation is simply… conclusion. Connecting myself to each perishing creature would mean consistent shock, an unacceptable life. Furthermore, on the off chance that I attempted to stop the butcher, we would starve. Be that as it may, this is unique. I fold my head down to my collarbone and avoid rapidly across the yard. There is some delicate, startling secret staying nearby the horse shelter, drifting on the sweet southern breeze. The sun is practically gone: its last red beams are projected across the Nebraska fields and contact on single scraggly trees and skewed, wind-tortured horse shelters, similar to a man stroking the substance of his darling. Quietly, similar to the unsettle of wind on skin, I slide back the red entryway and slip inside. I remain solitary with my back facing the wood, taking in the stale smelling smell of straw and animal cud and corroded ranch apparatuses. What's more, there's one more smell as well, kept down by the dry virus actually hanging determinedly in the air. I have my earthy colored cotton dress on, with my sibling's pants on under, and a green fleece sweater over everything, nevertheless shudder like a marigold in the breeze. I let myself know it's simply from the virus.
By Parmesh Patil2 years ago in Fiction
NASA's Parker Solar Probe Breaks Records with Closest Sun Pass
Parker Solar Probe Achieves Closest-Ever Sun Approach : NASA's Parker Solar Probe has made history by executing an extraordinary mission. It brings us closer to understanding our solar system's most critical celestial body. This groundbreaking spacecraft has achieved the closest-ever approach to the Sun, reaching an incredible proximity of just 4.51 million miles from the star's scorching surface.
By Royalty Side2 years ago in Fiction
The Mission part 8
As the Beta Team was looking up and seeing a 'murder' of drones flying towards them they ran for shelter for they could not tell who they belonged to. They entered the first building they came to and radioed headquarters to ask about the drones that were overhead. Headquarters replied "What drones? There are no drones flying in your sector." "Sir, but there are about 50 or more of them right above this town we are securing." "We will look into this and get back to you and just keep alert to your surroundings and keep reporting back any findings.
By Mark Graham2 years ago in Fiction
Is That You?
It just sort of turned up one day, the way cats do. We didn't think anything of it at the time. That's how it goes, right? Before people get a puppy, they research which breeds are right for them, or the shelter does a home visit and checks there aren't any holes in the fence. The owner names the new arrival as tenderly as they would a human infant. They feed him only what he is already accustomed to, and transition him to the best they can afford. They watch his coat and bowel movements for any sign that his precious digestive system has been upset. Now, take your average cat. He just picks you, or possibly more accurately, your home, at random. He just wanders in one day and vomits behind the sofa to establish dominance. Or you fish him out of the rubbish in the freezing cold and he ends up with a stupid place-holder nickname that stuck. This one was ordinary-looking. A little on big, but not remarkably so. His fur was a bit long and he was sleek and handsome, but his colouring was boring. Black, with a white streak that barely dodged his nose and ran down to his belly. My dad was old fashioned and not a fan of animals, least of all pets. He insisted Gary could come in twice a day for food, but only as far as the kitchen. Gary had other ideas. No matter how conscientiously we put him outside and shooed him away, he'd turn up inside again ten minutes later. We'd hurry to put him back out, to save the hassle of Dad finding him, and stomping about in a mood, but it did no good. It was the way he just kept appearing. It was uncanny. I've never been the superstitious sort, but I started wondering if Gary could teleport, or maybe walk through solid walls or doors. Was he even properly real? Was he a ghost? The spirit of a loved one, maybe. "Grandad? Is that you?" I whispered it, because I felt so silly. Gary didn't laugh. He listened, perfectly serious, and blinked twice, slowly. He reached out with a paw, and patted my hand, the way Grandad used to do. We aren't sure of his age, but we've had him nearly twenty years and he's hardly changed a bit. We tried getting a kitten once, but he bullied the thing mercilessly, and we had to take her back. Then last month, Nana died. Less than a week later, an imperious grey tabby turned up on the doorstep, meowing for, as it turned out a very specific brand of cat food. I couldn't help but remember how particular she could be about what tea she'd drink. Gary and Barb are inseperable. They come and go as they please. Dad gave up on the mostly outdoor cat" nonsense years ago. We have litter boxes, now. Plural. A cat flap, too. Dad remarked the other day, "If you can come back, I think I'll come back as a cat. I'll want salmon twice a week, and you can leave the spare room door open."
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
