Short Story
Call of the Wild
Working with wildlife was something Ethan Parker had always known he wanted to do. He had wanted to work as a wildlife scientist since he was a young boy and saved a wounded falcon. He pictured himself hiking through thick rainforests, tagging wolves that were in risk of going extinct, or getting involved in conservation initiatives to conserve endangered species.
By Briar Rose2 years ago in Fiction
Never Gonna Dance Again
It was something I'd done almost every day of my working life: pick up a sword, and wield it, and try not to die. l even enjoyed it at one point. I can't lie. The swell of the crowds behind me and under me was impossibly sweet. It thundered in my blood like a drug, and I was addicted to it alright. Girls loved me. Well, everyone loved me. I was in the best shape of my life, and the costume didn't skimp on that fact, not one bit. I knew, when I twisted this way, or turned that way... that I cut a spectacle for the watchers to swoon over. The sun glinted on my fine colours, and I was vain for my silks and sequins. I must have looked at the beast a hundred times, a thousand, even. I don't think I saw him even once. I saw his hooves, his horns, and the great slabs of muscle that could crush me to powder. I saw distance; this much is safe, that much will make the people gasp. I saw which way he glanced, because animals can't lie, not like people can. Did l ever look at his eyes, though? Yes. Once. That last day. It was the undoing of me. I expected to see rage. Heat. A male desire to match my own, that peacock-esque drive to strut and stomp and squash. His eyes were liquid dark and questioning. They didn't pin me in a hurricane of testosterone. They didn't scream, I will end you! They didn't mock. They looked around for escape, and they lighted on me and asked, "What is this?" and then, (and I almost hated him for this) in the next moment they wanted to know, "Am I going to die?" Something went out of me, like wind dropping out of straining sails. The drug that had sustained me for so long congealed like tar in my veins. I felt it turn to poison in real time. Waves of euphoria were replaced by nausea and disgust.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
The Fantasy Box
As the night progressed, Anslo allowed the young woman to bind his wrists with his necktie and tie him to the bed. Anslo was at the airport and about to check his bag when he realized he had absentmindedly slipped his pocket knife back into his pants pocket as he was packing.
By Scott A. Gese2 years ago in Fiction
Born Among Ruins
There had been signs. They started becoming more noticeable in 2016 AD - whispers of false prophets, the persecution of the innocent, and a world that had forgotten mercy. Tolerance waned, cruelty was applauded, and the false god — money — was worshipped above all.
By Karina Thyra2 years ago in Fiction
