Short Story
The Toy Maker's Song
In the middle of the town, there was a humble house. Which, with the state of things, was surprising. It wasn't anything extravagant, just a standard tile roof with some shingles missing, white bricks that'd been repaired a good many times, and an old, oaken door that creaked upon entry. In the window, toys lingered, with price tags sat beside their feet. Dolls made with the highest of praise, play swords to teach the young, but made to never draw blood. Rocking horses for the small, cradles for the even smaller. And one, very particular doll, that didn't usually get to see the window.
By Kai Leavelle2 years ago in Fiction
The Widow: An Undead Story
It has been years now since the neighborhood has been filled with families and the sounds of their little ones playing together in the streets. The world fell with the rise of the infection and the neighborhood with it. There was an evacuation not but a week after the initial start of local infections, offering to get those away before it could spread, but it was only weeks before the entire world was overrun.
By Patrick Sullivan2 years ago in Fiction
"Self Starter; Needs to Hit the Ground Running"
The first time I set eyes on Viktor, there was just something about him. Not attraction, exactly, although he was handsome, there was no denying that. His full, almost pouty lips contrasted with the sweeping, sharp planes of his face, high cheekbones, and strong jawline.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
The Kentucky Dreamer: #Tamer
**I grew up as a young girl, wrestling with my twin brother in front of the T.V. trying to get the best seat in the house to admire Daniel Boone, as played by the handsome, Fess Parker. (Don't roll your eyes, he was pretty hot)His high adventures and gentle nature made me an easy fan, but now, the poet in me wants something a little more flowery. Some of the following is factual, some is from the dimly lit corners of my imagination.Although Daniel Boone was not a prolific letter writer due to his limited education, there is evidence that he did write letters to his wife, Rebecca. Some say, he had his sister in law write many letters for him. It was said that he loved his wife deeply and even raised a daughter believed to have been his brothers, as his own. This is how I imagined he would have written to Rebecca if he could have written them from his heart**
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden2 years ago in Fiction
Selections from the Grand Bazaar
Russ kept his rifle aimed at the door of the shack, listening closely for any sounds beyond his own breath and the soft rustling from Buddy. He had found Buddy as a puppy, abandoned on a pile of trash, and from the moment Russ cradled him in his arms, he knew he’d never let him go. Trustworthy friends weren’t easy to come by in the Gutter, but Buddy loved him unconditionally. Now, the dog was poised to leap at the flimsy plywood door, ready to protect his master, unaware that what lurked outside could tear him apart in an instant.
By R.R. Stephenson2 years ago in Fiction
Unspoken Love
Vickie Winslow was ill and no one seemed to know why. She had been to several doctors, all specialists in their field. They had ran multiple tests to try and determine the cause of her illness. They all came back negative. Her doctors were stumped. Vickie should be a healthy 25 year old woman in her prime, but it seemed as if her body was slowly giving out. The medical profession couldn’t come up with an answer as to why.
By Scott A. Gese2 years ago in Fiction
Falling Star
A star fell out of the night sky. Blazing, seen clearly from the ground even against the gentle glow from the dying fire beside which I sat with my son, it tore across the heavens for barely a second but I saw it. I watched it fall, and I made a wish. The kind of wish that knew would never be answered, but one that I hoped would be. I think that’s why they call it a wish.
By Alexander McEvoy2 years ago in Fiction
Selections from the Grand Bazaar
Fountainhead Armory 4-4. The Beacon of Long Days. The Spire of Malice. The Lead Citadel. The Shithole. The factory was all of these things. The 4-4 structure and its sprawling campus stood as a monument to Fountainhead’s dominance in Vargos. Weapons, drones, ammunition, and experimental killing machines rolled off its assembly lines around the clock. Its efficiency and market dominance was indisputable as the second-largest munitions factory in Tokyo produced only a sixteenth of Fountainhead’s output, and that was only when its workers and machines were overclocked. The air around it hummed with the rhythmic clanging of assembly lines and the endless whir of conveyor belts stretching in every direction, so vast it would take a day of careful observation to determine where just one of them truly ended.
By R.R. Stephenson2 years ago in Fiction
Selections from the Grand Bazaar
Another day in Neon Heights, but this one felt different for Lola. She was still buzzing after last night. She’d gone out dancing with friends at a Zenith cocktail bar and met someone she couldn't forget. The woman was a stellar dancer, her hot pink bob cut twisting as she moved across the dance floor, her bright red eyes burning their way into Lola’s memory. They’d bumped into each other at the bar that night, the mysterious woman ordering a vodka soda, Lola’s favorite drink.
By R.R. Stephenson2 years ago in Fiction
MY WEREWOLF SYSTEM. Content Warning.
Chapter 8: Fight back! Today, Gary was walking to school a lot slower than he usually would. He was constantly looking around his surroundings, checking if there wasn’t anybody following him. He had recognised the three deceased gang members on TV as the same ones who had been after him at the construction site.
By Ifeoluwa Akinyemi2 years ago in Fiction
