fiction

When Carmen Callaghan finally woke up, she felt as though the world was spinning. Probably because she was actually spinning. Suspended by thick mariner’s rope, Carmen faced a bleak, concrete wall, then part of another bleak, concrete wall, a man standing right in front of her, and back to the walls again. Her head hurt. It wasn’t the usual cerebral grudge against all the cheap booze and cheap skunk Carmen used to blot out the realities of living, but this was sharp and boiling.

This world is unforgiving. That is the first ever thing Marco learned. He learned that the world we live in offers redemption to only those who can afford it and laughs in the faces of those who can’t. Marco was an interesting kid to say the least, in school while students were outside playing on the playground, he would sit back and observe each and every kid.

“The Lower Nu-Manhattan Memory Bank is a proud subsidiary of Cortex. Cortex: We don’t just preserve your memories, we cherish them!” The slogan boomed out across the street as the building’s massive screen illuminated all of the passers-by walking past. Rain cascaded down between the neon lights of the city square, scattering the neon light from the billboard in a haze all around the denizens of the city.

A teacup and saucer shatter, followed by the apology of a scullery maid and the berating’s of her mistress. The flowing fragrant contents of the now dashed china cup scattered across the polished tile floor. The still steaming liquid pooling at the feet of a beautiful, teary eyed girl who I now found rushing past me and into the hall.

“You’re just like your fucking father!” That’s the last thing she said before slamming the door in my sorry face. According to my watch, It’s seven-thirty. I should be at home eating the dinner that my wife slaved over with her and my boy, but new girl Nia left me an unnoticed lipstick stain on my brand new shirt that my son, Avery, got me for Christmas, so tonight’s plans have changed.

Once I discovered that monsters were real, only one clear decision could be made: hunt them down. When it all began, my house was being haunted by an evil spirit. After the exorcist banished the being, my research began and soon followed my pursuit of such creatures.

I pushed the snack cart through the aisle of the cramped Boeing 747, It was my third year as a flight attendant and I had quickly realized not only did I dislike it, no I deplored it with each fiber of my being.

The clock strikes 8:17 as I am sitting on the cool stool at our local bar. The bartenders are busy with angry drunks who don’t want to go home. The tables are mostly empty except for old men that slowly drink their sorrows away. The news is playing on the TV in the background. Another missing child. “Stella Davis, thirteen years of age, 5ft 3 and sporting short brunette hair, last seen wearing a baby blue polo shirt and blue jeans” is what they said. The picture the reporters used for her missing person poster makes her look strikingly beautiful. She has now been missing for approximately three days.

“Four Seasons” is a heartwarming and emotional story about two teenage girls, Flora and Rose, meet at the library and quickly become close. As the seasons change, the two go on adventures and spend time together, but as they grow closer, tensions rise and their relationship is tested.

The air in the shop was fragrant and warm, a stark comparison to the bitter cold and pungency of the alley outside. Rows of pretty tarts and manicured mini cakes lined the front window, glowing in the murky morning light and drawing wanderers towards the bakery. Rhonda worked behind the counter, hair pulled away from her face haphazardly, buzzing around the bakery. Her left arm was covered in bracelets, beads made of glass and plastic and clay and metal jingling against one another to create a unique melody that followed her everywhere. Rhonda greeted the customers swiftly, her sweet, mischievous voice complemented by the glint of wry wit that sparkled in her dark eyes.

It should have been a pleasant sunset before the eve of the Forefathers. The young Trev had become a man now, bringing to the village a large boar. They were to celebrate the escape from the horrible Eledin, The Blacklights. A hundred years had passed since that day, during which the tribe had battled greenskins, monsters and even other tribes to survive.

Timmy woke up that January morning to find the neighborhood blanketed in snow. He heard his dad griping to himself in the shower about his bus being delayed. Grabbing his backpack, Timmy stampeded down the stairs, hauling his bag to the front door.

Vaporous coils of smoke twisted and wafted around the glistening marble pavilion, permeating the air with the sweet aroma of rose that emanated from the copper bowl squatting in a corner of the room. Braziers blazed throughout the pavilion, casting a warm and comforting glow around the room.

To summit, you must rise when the sun is asleep and walk across cratered terrain lit only by milky stars. A five-hour sunrise summit across five kilometres of rock. Good luck going to sleep the evening before. If you’re lucky, the previous day’s nine hours of walking exhausted you just enough to rest your eyes for a couple of hours.

He sat himself against a tree, looking out towards one of the natural clearances provided by mother nature and glanced at the trees as his fingers fumbled dents into the sides of the peach can. Pat was careful not to cut himself, cautiously increasing pressure until the top of the can collapsed in on itself in the shape of a dull crater.

Welcome fresh unmolded mind. If you decided to pick up this book it probably means you’re lonely, young, and too naive to know what’s good for you. If that’s the case, then you’re already in a great position to be starting your whirlwind romance!