Short Story
The Upper Hand
It was really pissing me off, if I'm completely honest, how he sloped about the place with that little smirk on his face. If he'd been arrested (as he bloody well should have been) he'd have been locked up wouldn't he? At least for a while, surely. I would have had the whole flat to myself. That would have felt good. The tantalising opportunity to... oh I don't know. Go through his stuff or something.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Young Hearts:
She’d woken up early, climbed out of bed without him stirring, made her way downstairs and slipped out of the door. She’d walked two miles before sunrise to reach the station and then she planted herself somewhere between the yellow line and the platform edge. The morning dew dripped from the treetops, birds chirped as birds do and spring smelled just like spring. Clouds clouded, lights lit, traffic trafficked, and the moon hung around past its bedtime. All was as it always was which struck her as strange, because nothing was as it always was. Coffee tasted as bitter as the day before and her cigarette butt hissed in a puddle as though it was a regular day. There was a hole in the sole of her left converse, that the big toe relentlessly dug deeper. It gyrated back and forth trying to break free and reach the concrete beneath, it too was in disbelief that they’d made it and probably wanted to test the ground itself. Big toe, subconscious, it’s all the same. The notice board flickered in her peripheral, the train was delayed, her train. Not by much but enough for nerves to set in and maybe even change her mind, she feared. She was finally cashing in her ticket; an abstract one-way freedom pass she’d dreamed up a few years prior. The idea manifested and was used much like a comfort blanket, one that she slept with each night, smuggled in her bag to work, and kept close at all times. At any given moment she could escape into the idea and put some distance between herself and the present. She’d likened it to Bukowski’s bluebird or Dorothy’s slippers, but it wasn’t either, it was Faith’s ticket.
By Kurtis Prydeabout a year ago in Fiction
When the shores come calling. Content Warning.
His breathing unsteady and shaky, his stomach in knots watching the waves splashing up against the boat. Getting closer to the beach now, he can see it on the horizon. Looking around, pale wide-eyed boys, not men, but young boys dressed to the nines in their military gear clenching their rifles so hard their knuckles are white. Heartbeats quicken their pace as bullets start flying coming from all directions. He looks up and sees his captain calling out, but is unable to hear what he is saying, for a moment he leaves his fear behind and is taken to a place he goes in his mind when things get rough. Closing his eyes, and for a mere moment he is back safe in the comfort of his home. Suddenly, hands grab him by his collar, and he opens his eyes, “get your ass up and move soldier! Keep your helmet and keep your rifle, now let’s go! Move! Move! Move!” Captain yells out as the gate drops down. Before we can take one step 5 men go down, instantly killed. Others crawling over the sides of the boat getting hit before they are able to swing their bodies over the ridge, falling into the water, one by one. I manage to make it over the edge and fall hard into the water holding my rifle tightly close to me as I swim to shore. The waves dyed the color of red, staining the beaches shores that are riddled with soldiers bodies lining up and down the shoreline. Crawling over body after body, some in pieces, I manage to find a barrier to protect myself for the moment catching my breath. I glance around the adrenaline searing through me. I watch as my friends are dying all around me. Watching them fall to their deaths in slow motion before hitting the ground. Others, being blown up as legs, arms and torso’s go flying into the air. “I need to move, moving keeps you safe,” I say to myself. I wait for a minute and then begin to move further up the beach. Crawling like I was taught in boot camp to do. Moving my legs through the mushy wet sand, my body cold and soaked to the bone. Sending chills up my spine as the salt blood ocean water drips from my helmet and down my face. “Keep moving!” I say to myself again. Finally, I make it to another barrier. A young man, ducked behind the same one. Tears running down his face as his screams are drawn out from the noise of the gun fire and explosions. Taking a moment for him to realize he is no longer alone. We make eye contact, his fear strewed across his face “It’s okay!” I say to him. “We are going to be okay!” A lie, I repeat to my own self. I signal to him we need to keep moving. The young man nodding in agreement and pulls himself together. “We are going to move out at the same time. Okay? On the count of three! One, two, three! Move!” I yell out. Just when we turned to make our way from our around the barrier, a grenade goes off. Throwing the young soldier into the air. When he lands, he sees his legs have been blown, ripped from his body. He screams in agony, a blood curdling scream I have never heard, before today. I crawl over to him pulling him back behind the barrier. “Medic!” I yell out. I search for my med kit and can’t find it. “Shit!” I yelled; it must have fallen out in the water somewhere. I try and calm him down, but to no avail. He screams some more crying out for his mother, what seems to go on for a lifetime is only a few minutes and then silence; and just like that he was gone. I close his eyes and lean back against the barrier. I look at my hands, they are stained red, tears stream down my face as I look back towards the blood-soaked ocean, the noise starts to draw out and everything begins to fall silent once more. I close my eyes and when I awaken, I see myself standing in front of a mirror. Suit and tie, dressed in my dress blues, there stands a much older, more fragile and bruised, his mind broken from the traumas of war not to be confused of the young soldier that stood there once looking back at him scared and confused, but also excited for he had no idea what hell he was about to endure. My breath trembles as the images from that day, 81 years ago come rushing back, like a movie montage. My eyes fill with tears and my hands begin to shake, I can feel the same fear as I felt that day come rushing over me, as I did on that beach 81 years ago. D-Day, so many of my friends died on that beach, and so many more who I never had the honor of knowing. They sacrificed their lives for our freedoms today; 2,500 American soldiers never came home after that day. Their bodies, becoming one with the land and sea as the shores come calling them home. I take in a deep breath and wipe my tears from my eyes. I send up a small prayer for the fallen soldiers who became heroes, in hopes that their souls are finally at peace.
By Aubrie Sandnessabout a year ago in Fiction
Dan the Scientific Dog
There was a brown labrador named Dan. He was your typical canine friend. He loved to run in his backyard, eat his dog bone treats, and play with his squeaky hot dog toy. Dan was a fun, friendly, well-behaved dog. John had adopted Dan about five years ago, when he was just a puppy. In a way, they had grown up together.
By Judith Jaschaabout a year ago in Fiction
ignem feram
Living inside one's own mind can be dangerous, especially when what occupies your mind are dangerous things. I've accepted long ago that I'm such a person - drawn to the darker corners of human nature and endlessly curious about how far one might dive into the abyss. I always thought I was above the millennia-old-saying that looking into such darkness would mean that darkness would peer into you.
By Amanda Starksabout a year ago in Fiction
We Were Just Having Breakfast-Then the Water Took Us
By Zahir Ahmad Morning came gently to the Swat Valley, with golden light spilling over the hills and dancing across the rippling waters of the Snha River. The sound of birds calling through the crisp mountain air blended with the faint gurgle of the river as it wound its way around smooth stones and under swaying willows.
By Zahir Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
