Short Story
Running Away
The screech of tires punctuated with impatient horns interspersed with the wail of sirens from varying distances had become deafening. I used to find comfort in the constant drone of the bustling city, but then it became all too much. It was everywhere, all the time. I laid awake in bed tossing and turning, trying in vain to shut it out. I struggled to pay attention to television shows, my mind constantly pulled by the incessant noise that permeated the air. I could not remember the last time I was able to actually read a book. I chewed my fingernails to bloody pulps as my anxiety swelled. I had to get away, somewhere far away from the claustrophobic crowds that pressed in around me whenever I ventured out of my apartment. I had to get out of that filthy city and find some peace and quiet.
By A. J. Schoenfeld3 years ago in Fiction
Braided Chain. Top Story - November 2023.
Port of Seattle, WA, September 1912, Footsteps clamored on the wooden panels as I waited. The sun was setting over the harbor cascading orange and gold light across the faces of silhouettes who strolled the boardwalk. Local men and women dressed in their finest attire catching the last of the summer night air that now had a chill as wind gusts came in over the sea.
By C. H. Richard3 years ago in Fiction
Detour
The road ahead was a smear, a smudge of charcoal on a stained and dirty canvas, stretching across a featureless landscape toward the horizon. There was a ragged stubble of half-naked bushes along the edge of the asphalt, whipped about by the wind and flailing their bony branches like tortured souls as I passed by. Beyond that unkempt fringe was nothing but endless acres of rock and sand, spreading monotonously in all directions. It was hard to believe the map on my phone, which assured me that there would be a little town less than an hour away. At this point I would welcome the livid glow of neon, the cluster of ugly structures huddled together like stranded survivors at the edge of the void. I would order myself a cheap greasy burger from whatever joint I could find and be on my way, fortified to face whatever creatures lay waiting ahead in the alien terrain.
By Michael Dilts3 years ago in Fiction
Rosita's News. Content Warning.
Rosita had some good news to tell Edmund. She was pregnant with his baby. Rosita knew he’d be excited to hear the news once Rosita told him. She was due in June and hadn’t been with anyone since June of this year, so she knew it was Edmund’s baby.
By Mother Combs3 years ago in Fiction
The Canyon
Each rock in the road was working against my will to keep my eyes unglazed and open, like a knee rhythmically bumping against a swaddled baby. The brown signs of the Forest blended against the passing rocks and sand. I remembered a friend telling me how ugly he thought the desert was, how plain and dusty and earthen. This thought boiled in me and helped keep me awake on the road as my tires irresponsibly tossed and turned over a much too rough road. I tended to take my car on roads it had no business being on, just to prove to no one but myself that it could. I knew at any moment, a lonely jag of a rock edge could slice my tire and leave me there, stranded with no cell service, hoping that someone might find me. Though it had been hours since I’d seen another car. It had been days since I’d seen the flesh of another human or animal. Here there was a sparseness of trees, surely housing fauna of some kind, but in the desert they hide in the day and wait, evading my searching eyes.
By King O'Neill3 years ago in Fiction
T - Minus Zero
T – Minus Zero D. A. Ratliff A muffled rumble reached his ears as the deck beneath him trembled. Eric Chandler paused to take a shallow breath, then continued his task, as there was no time to worry about the increasing frequency of the strikes. The defense shield will have to do its job. There was much to do.
By D. A. Ratliff3 years ago in Fiction
Berry. Second Place in Arid Challenge.
I closed my mouth slowly, deliberately, pressing rather than chewing. It is important to savour. The berry, plucked so long ago from that solitary bush, kept too long in my tattered pouch, was engulfed in my parched silence. It was shrivelled, hard; my tongue pushed it to the roof of my mouth, my throat braced for a burst of sweet juice that never came.
By James Leek3 years ago in Fiction
