Satire
Ekaterinburg is Your Best Bet!
Putin died and was buried in St.Petersburg, his native city. A Russian political dissident who'd been driven out of the country for fear of persecution comes to a travel agent and says, "Please help me find a ticket to St.Petersburg, Russia. I tried to book it myself but everything seems to have been sold out for a year."
By Lana V Lynxabout a month ago in Fiction
You Can Call Me AI...
Note: for the Challenge, I'm using the following piece by Jasmine Aguilar: Reason why it was chosen: we are living with Artificial Intelligence, and there are many concerns that it could take over and even destroy us (many of these concerns come from the very creators of such technology). I thought that I should approach this with a sense of humour, referencing one of my favourite nonsensical Paul Simon songs (see the link below...and pay attention to the lyrics).
By Kendall Defoe about a month ago in Fiction
Nothing interesting here
Never call me again <I hoped we still had a chance, but honestly, this is going nowhere> she said. <Catherine, after everything we’ve been through, you’re pulling the plug? Why can’t we just talk this out? In person. You know I hate dealing with this shit over the phone.>
By Just a guy2 months ago in Fiction
WINTERGLOOM
Christmas lights hung on the porch as most houses did in December—but, it was late August. The thick black wires were tacked gently onto my copper gutters. I didn’t mind the slight intrusion, they went well with the wind chimes and glass bottle suncatchers. Of course, other houses on the block look pristine with their manicured lawns and freshly painted siding, but they were empty shells. Cold, sterile frames made from generic wood and drywall. I was different. I breathed. I felt. I saw. I knew.
By K.H. Obergfoll2 months ago in Fiction
Stitch: Winter Freeze of '96
The regional BMX track outside of Orlando was a chaotic, dust-choked ring of adrenaline and family friction in late October of 1996. The heat was sitting at a sweltering ninety-two degrees, the thick Florida air smelling heavily of fried concessions, melting tire rubber, and copper-rich dirt. Ted sat on a folding lawn chair near the starting gate, a pair of dark aviators hiding his critical gaze as he watched the brackets warm up. Next to him, Lisa was meticulously organizing the cooler, ensuring the sports drinks were perfectly packed in ice.
By Syl De'Vil2 months ago in Fiction
