Short Story
A Chance.
My heart was pounding wildly in my ears. I could hear shouts and curses behind me. ''Get her! She must be caught.'' I pushed my poor exhausted body on, towards the blue. If I could only reach the sea, I stood a chance. Max had taught me how to swim when I was five; ten years before 'they' took over, with the promise of a better life, a future, equality. Since then, no-one on this small island was allowed near the ocean. We couldn't stray from the perimeters of the electric fence. Anyone who did manage to escape was shot on sight. After months of planning, and with help, I was now running.
By Deborah Robinson3 years ago in Fiction
2:47 AM
“Ma! Mother! Hey, Ma!” Ellie yells to me from the bottom of the bleachers where she’s standing with a few of the older girls from the squad. She stamps her foot on the pavement, hands on hips, ponytail swinging and face scrunched into a red-cheeked grimace of teenage frustration that she inherited from me. I slowly weave through the dispersing crowd towards my daughter. It had been a terrible game. This will be the third loss in a row for our boys, and the disappointment in the crisp evening air is palpable.
By Jessica Conaway3 years ago in Fiction
New Names
On my way to Touch Me, I drove through a little town by the name of Look At Me, and as I expected, there was nothing to look at. In Hear Me, there was nothing to listen to; in Smell Me, even the smell of the New Industrial Revolution was lacking; and in Taste Me, tastelessness was quite evident. What happened to the world? Did we become madder? These questions followed by a string of successors ached in my brain, and when the answers seemed to have acquired a central theme, the pain seemed to have receded as well.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Fiction
Jonathan
Jonathan Dryden’s red popsicle was melting. It dripped through his fat fingers and when he wiped them on the front of his faded old tee shirt it looked like blood streaks. Jonathan probably did that on purpose, though. Jonathan always did weird stuff like that.
By Jessica Conaway3 years ago in Fiction
Coming Home
Gramma always said the house had “character”. I didn’t remember ever being to the place as an adult. I’m not a young person anymore, so I may be wrong, but it does seem to me that I couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve the last time I laid eyes on the place.
By Paula Shablo3 years ago in Fiction
Blue Rose
Rachel had finally finished her last session of the day. Today had felt like it went on forever, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She knew today was going to be hard, it would have been his birthday today. Rachel says goodbye to her client and swiftly closes the door behind them. With one deep sigh, she rushes over to her journal to process her emotions. She always got taught to practise what she preaches. He taught her that. This should make her feel better. It has every other time.
By Shauna Mullen3 years ago in Fiction
A Conversation
Sitting here in the neighborhood coffee shop, I see all these people being “social.” But there’s never any interaction. We’re attached to our phones and tablets, talking and texting, but never having a traditional conversation. It’s all about the latest email or text from that one friend or coworker or whatever.
By Megan Stewart3 years ago in Fiction
The Busboy part III
Monday, 1 June 1981 “Hey Tracy. You ready for your last book report of the year?” “I am, Cy. Let’s go,” she responded as she took his arm and walked out to his car. She waited a moment while he opened the door. She slipped into the seat, setting her supplies down on the bench between them, as she always did.
By L. Lane Bailey3 years ago in Fiction
The Winning Game. Top Story - June 2021.
The décor of the Summit Centre was just as pretentious as the awards show itself. Everything had been meticulously chosen in the same shade of cream; the lighting, the tablecloths, the dishware, the flowers. Ruby sat at her assigned table staring at her nameplate in front of her place setting. She wished that Joel had come with her, at least it would have been someone to talk to. Instead, his nameplate and empty seat beside hers would be a reminder of how alone she really was. She was surprised he hadn’t at least called or sent a text. After 10 years of marriage, one would think he’d have wanted to say good luck, for the moment put the divorce aside, especially since it was so new. Ruby awkwardly scrolled through her phone even though she had been told not to do that at events like these. She hated these things.
By Christina Hunter3 years ago in Fiction