Short Story
Fragments of the Former. Content Warning.
I sit here, fermenting and faded, my jaw slack and eyes milky-white with glazed detachment. My spirit lingers somewhere in my peripheral, mocking me in its fleeting existence between the physical and other. Occasionally I feel it dart from the stale air, through old damp wood and into fresh, foggy mornings. The low clouds sometimes roll through the gaps and cloak me, drifting to place small beads of water on my brow as if I sweat again despite the morning chill.
By Obsidian Words2 years ago in Fiction
SHE FOLLOWED ME HOME - ch 7
SHE FOLLOWED ME HOME – ch 7 Mo deas ^ ^ “As I was saying, The day began lovely enough. It was a warm and sunny spring day in the middle of April when I decided to walk into town. Summer Soltice was around the corner and Wicklow had already planned their annual celebration. I was sixteen and decided I wanted to make a new dress to wear. After all, I was all about to impress Ruari.”
By Margaret Brennan2 years ago in Fiction
"Code of Silence"
It was perilous to use words in the dark city of Atris. The government's Lexicon Committee strictly regulated language, turning ordinary speech into a list of uninteresting, officially sanctioned words. An unexpected metaphor, a deft word choice, or a candid admission were all grounds for arrest in case of creative departure. Vocal alteration surgery was the cruel form of punishment, removing all color and nuance from the voice and leaving it lifeless and monotonous. It meant losing your voice to break the code.
By Abdul Qayyum2 years ago in Fiction
Lev Grettel, Crucifixion Specialist. Content Warning.
Lev Grettel stomped uphill through a field of snow toward the abandoned church. The February air was still, frigid, moist. Lev kept his head down with the effort, glancing up occasionally in anticipation. The church loomed, isolated in a field of white. The sun roared a dull whine, attempting to set distant trees on fire, failing.
By Jason Edwards2 years ago in Fiction
The Last Party
The day I met Emma started like any other, but then again, my days always start the same way: a repetitive cycle of mundanity marred by the occasional oddity. This time, however, the oddity was Emma herself. I remember vividly how she appeared in the café like a burst of sunlight through a thick, gray fog.
By Eladeo Mallett2 years ago in Fiction
