Kobul never liked missions. Kobul never liked new place. Missions on new place were boring. Missions always had lots of waiting and watching. Never enough hunting. Kobul was a hunter. Kobul was best hunter. Kobul was strong. Kobul was fast. Kobul was smart.
Big two arm pink thing was with Kobul on rooftop. Ghost thing told Kobul and him to watch for food on roof. Food attacked Kobul all the time. Kobul was never hurt. Kobul always would win. But Kobul was never allowed to eat food that attack Kobul. It angered Kobul. On old place, Kobul would eat all the food that tried to hurt Kobul or people that looked like Kobul. Sometimes people that looked like Kobul was food. Sometimes people weren’t. It was always up to those people. Read the rest of this entry
This one starts and ends a little differently. But hang in there, it does go somewhere.
My stories this year are character focused instead of plot focused. I end each story only when the reader can get a grasp for a part of the character and form an opinion about them.
You never quite understand how structurally resistant a wall can be until you’re knocked through one. The base was built to last through fires, raids, and even area damage bombs. It was not, however, meant to take a four hundred pound Restioxian woman sent through the air at high speed. The same can’t be said the other way around. My people aren’t likely to be brought down by this kind of damage. Even if it did take me a moment to get back up.
“Very good. You’re getting the hang of it.” Read the rest of this entry
Warning. The following story contains:
Foul language. Allusions to desired sex. An unfortunately likable asshole.
It didn’t get dark there. It got purple. Deep purple, so purple that everything else either looks too blue or too red depending on whether it’s after midnight or not. I walked up beside him just as he was starting to turn a little red. He was against the sky, standing in behind the railings of the sniper platform. He’d been there all day.
“Hey, sorry about… ya know.”
It took the kid a while to respond. He was still getting over the shock of the whole thing. New people, new job, new planet. Shit can be tough.
“Yeah…” Read the rest of this entry
This is Aaron’s secondary mind, reporting from the creative recesses of his psyche. We’re here with one of the main characters of Myth; of Men and Monsters. She doesn’t quite understand that she’s a character and she hasn’t gone through any of the events in the story yet, we’ve caught her the day before her first introduction.
Ms. Bo’Fauhn, it’s lovely having you here, are you comfortable?
Yes, very much so, thank you.
Wonderful. Let’s get started as I know you have things you need to accomplish. Can you tell us a little about yourself? Give us some history on you.
My name is Claire Bo’Fauhn. I’m sixteen years old, nearing the end of my Spiriling courses at the Byohar Tower Schools. I’m the daughter of a Ghirault, a nobleman from Fridinlay. Read the rest of this entry
I’m a writer.
I enjoy writing, the flow of creativity from the mind through the fingers into whatever medium I choose. One of my greatest pleasures is to see my characters rise from nothing.
There is one part of the process which I do not like. I wouldn’t go so far to say that I hate it. It simply bores me. It’s editing and is the level I have reached with my short story collection.
… I’m falling asleep.
Tell me, if you write and edit, how the hell do you get through it?
Thought you guys might enjoy this. It’s an excerpt of what I’m working on right now.
Light filtered through her closed eyelids, washing the darkness in a warm ruddy pink. She held still as long as she could. A lingering sleepy thought crept through her slowly waking mind, convincing her that if she gave the others no reason to notice, she’d be left alone.
She had not slept well. Read the rest of this entry
Aaron would like me to tell you that, to fully comprehend this story, you must read all the ones that came before. Doing so is not necessary to enjoy it, but there are a bunch of Easter Eggs and this is the conclusion to the ‘Reapers’ miniseries… and it directly ties in with another, previous unrelated story…. So, basically… He’s fucking with you.
The knob turns easily enough but, as your mind was trying to tell you, music doesn’t work in this place. Not only is there a lack of radio waves, a lack of towers outputting beats to the masses, it’s worse; records, tapes, cds, nothing plays. You miss the rhythms and harmonies.
Besides the silence, there’s an undeniably calming effect to sitting in the front seat. You’d forgotten exactly how much of a difference there is. You had convinced yourself a while ago that sitting in the back, hiding from the red and the horror of this realm was the best for you. But now, with the breeze on your face and a little more connection with the new driver, you feel in control. As much as you can, at least. Read the rest of this entry
As a conscientious adult, I have to warn the reader that this story is a little more on the mature side. It involves certain concepts not suitable for people below 16.
To be fair, it involves concepts not suitable for ANYONE. THIS IS NOT ABOUT HOLMES, DO NOT COME INTO THIS STORY WITH THAT ASSUMPTION. YOU READ AT YOUR OWN RISK… Thank you, that is all.
Metal cuts skin. That’s a no-brainer, really. Shears are my favorite. They’re strong enough to replace a good knife, but still have that scissors action. Two blades, slicing against each other, creating a huge amount of pressure on such a tiny point separated dermal tissue, muscles, tendons, even smaller bones.
His skin fell away quick enough. It was cold, but not frozen solid. A few sounds escaped. They were reactionary and hurried. When I’d first started, all those years ago, they’d freaked me out a bit. I got used to them over time.
I really didn’t like doing this part. It made me feel strange. It gave me the creeps. I liked everything else, though. My friend got me into it.
At orientation, he introduced himself as Dr. Watson. It was kind of funny, kind of corny, but none-the-less endearing. He’d been a little pudgy back then. The mustache showed him to be a bit older than I was at the time. Within a few minutes I was able to deduce his age, weight, name and his hopeful future medical field. He dubbed me Sherlock. We kept those names, continuing them ourselves and then letting others further the legacy. Read the rest of this entry
… Ok, what the holy hell? Seriously? METAPHOR?! NO ONE GETS METAPHOR ANYMORE!
Speaking without words had become more than second nature.
What do you mean, experiments?
The creature in the containment tube twitched. God brought it to a large table and laid it down lengthways so the tops of the cylinder were visible. Through the flat discs, I saw it move. It tried to breathe but sputtered on the clear inspissation. The gel, meant to hold it in safety, was choking the thing. God’s thoughts touched some activator and the glass-structure fell away.
The organism wasn’t overtly strange. It was built in practically the same way as my previous people, two legs, two arms, one head. The skin was unique. It was the color of the sands below the plateau cities. Two eyes perched above a vertical and protruding nose with only two nostrils. It was stuck between sleep and the waking world, unaware of us but fully capable of speech. Mumbles in an alien language erupted arbitrarily. Read the rest of this entry