Short Story
Peach Sky, Cold Ground. Content Warning.
This story has been issued with a Dharrsheena warning. Please proceed with caution. He was starving. The sky was peach, a contemplative reminder of summer's warmth and ripeness; but the air was brittle and taut as he stepped outside his cabin. Oh, for the sweet taste of a peach! He salivated as he pulled his boots on. The call of the wild was starting to screech and nag, wearing him down. He had no reserves.
By Rachel Deeming3 years ago in Fiction
Cindy of Ravenswood. Content Warning.
There is a difference from right and from wrong, here, my thoughts do not align. I was always under the impression that they were good guys in the world and bad. Now I am not too sure. Let me first introduce myself to you, my name is Cindy Poppins, I am a caretaker for the elderly here in Ravenswood, it does not matter what their fault is or was while they were alive, rather younger, now that they are old and feeble mind and body. It is my task to take care of them in their final days. This is where I say the lines blurred between what is good and what is bad. To give further note in this I will try my best to recall the conversation from one who has passed, as well as one whom is waiting to pass.
By William L. Truax III3 years ago in Fiction
A Fork In the Road
$5k. Tonight. If you don’t answer the call, this gets posted to social media. Jack reads the note for the fourth time, glances at the damning photo of his partner, and reads the note again. The detective in him wants to have it analyzed by MPD’s forensic team. Chances are slim, but maybe they’d find a fingerprint belonging to the perp who’d written this, or find the font came from an old typewriter or something.
By Kenny Penn3 years ago in Fiction
Typewriter and the Author
Shafts of light streamed in through the wide window, warming the mahogany-stained desk and casting a spotlight on the ancient typewriter. Its black and red ribbons are brittle and crumbling, its alphanumeric keys eroded beneath decades of keystrokes. A yellowing sheet of paper remains wound around its return bar. What is written on the page has long since passed from the typewriter’s recollection. He had memorized it once, but now all he could recall were the final keystrokes as several remained jammed. The author had neglected to repair him, so here he lay, gathering rust and dust.
By S.N. Evans3 years ago in Fiction
Raindrops of Love
Once upon a time, in a quaint little town nestled amidst rolling hills and lush forests, there lived a young artist named Liam. Liam was a dreamer, always finding inspiration in the beauty of nature that surrounded him. His studio, a cozy attic overlooking the town, was his sanctuary where he poured his heart and soul into his paintings.
By Samir hosny3 years ago in Fiction
Do Androids Dream of Murder?
The woman is gorgeous; perfectly put together. Looking at her, you can believe someone made her in a computer. Since AI improved in leaps and bounds, and android manufacture improved exponentially, many people are relying on androids for all sorts of things. Including sex. It's less messy. Lower risk of pregnancy, disease, infidelity.
By L.C. Schäfer3 years ago in Fiction
