The visitor asked, "Can you write a story without a prompt?"
"I don't know," said the writer. "I've never tried."
"Really? You mean all those stories you wrote arose from something you'd seen or heard?"
"Or something I'd read. Tasted. Felt. Wondered about."
"And the novels? The poems? That terrible album you wrote and recorded?"
The writer smiled. "Yes, all of them. I need to have something to start from, some germ of a concept that I can build on. It's like the way a jazz musician riffs off a set theme. They start with what they have and make...
There was a young man but so much unlike a normal man he was. He was always put in solitude, never let neer others. There was a reason for this his, he was to dangerous his father would say to him. But he did not think this he did not think people would fear him. One day he had been walking through the courtyard and he spotted something in the corner, this was what he needed a tunnel. So the following night he crawled through and ended up in a town and smelled something so sweet.....blood.
My stomach felt like a balloon under my fingers. The cold gel pinned my thoughts onto the effort of not peeing. “The fetus sack is visualised”, the operator announced to no one in particular, startling me out of my penance. I looked up at him, then at the screen he was facing. The patches of grey kept moving, like clouds on a breezy day. A dot stood out. A tiny dot that seemed to throb. Both of us stared at it, though only one did with any knowledge.
I knew it was mine. I had made it, maybe the first...
When we go to work. We have memories of all kinds, from the good, the funny, the annoying. Just all kinds of memories that you will still remember as time goes on.
One of my recent memories from work was when one of my co-workers had scared my supervisor on purpose.
We were sitting at the desk when me and another co-worker of mine noticed her acting a bit suspicious, albeit in a funny way. When she hid under the desk, she put her finger to her lips telling us the "shush." Picking up the hint, we acted as if...
I am in Palm Springs the sun the haze the people I am in focus everything behind me is a blur an attractive sexy blur. I am in focus, focus with a lower case f. I want to tell you something I want to tell you what it feels like all hot and steamy the way chilled alcohol burns and tingles demands more my throat loose my toes free the smell of grass the smell of pools. I want to tell you something something about time about memory about thinking that things would never end never get bad I want...
I haven’t had any nightmares since my sister was locked up. Now I have it all because I killed him. But it was all a mistake.
The air around me turned into ice. My body felt as though it was weighted by meteorites. I lifted my throbbing head as my eyes trailed around my surroundings: a stone-cold room with fluorescent lights that smelled like sadness. I tried wiggling my hands, only being greeted by a rustle of platinum chains. This does not look like Washington. Where am I? Who would capture me? I did nothing wrong. Not since him.
“We are such stuff as dreams are made of.” Smith quipped. “The Tempest. Act four…”
“…Scene one. And it’s ‘on’ not ‘of’.” I retorted. “It continues. And our little life is rounded with a sleep.”
Smith snorted. “Ever the pessimist. And yet.” He paused for effect. “I propose to travel forward in Time by one second.”
“Smith, you can’t. Except by the traditional route. Which just takes one second to do. Except we are moving in Space-Time. Not just Time. Only light can do that without feeling the time pass.”
Smith shrugged. I tried to explain. “The Earth spins 460m/s....
“Send me a picture.” he’d said. Well, typed. It was that kind of initial flirting request. She had responded with a
and then, eventually, with a selfie.
Analysis of the GPS data encapsulated in the header file, compared with a record of CCTV locations, and her smiling face as a search parameter from stored footage, provided her entry point to the location. Cross-matched with the stored WiFi coordinates her smart phone had used to send the file, the exact location was confirmed. The “Le Poursuivant”
Inspection of the blurred background of the photo matched...
Here I am. Again. For the fifth time this week. Laying on my bed. Depressed. I don't know what to do. I hear my mum making dinner downstairs and my dad clicking away on his keyboard. I hear Sarah playing with her dolls and Jordan on his Xbox. I haven't come out of my room since Tuesday, I haven't said Good Morning or Good night to my parents since Tuesday or played dolls with Sarah since Tuesday, I haven't even been to school in 2 years. Depression is something else. Some people can deal with it, some can't. I am...
I like my room. It seems the four walls move closer to me everyday. I feel like I’m sitting in a mental asylum. People come in and out, give me food and leave. Just like the Neverending Story, The Nothing will soon crawl over every inch of my world, plunging me into eternal darkness. I walk through the sea of faces. Expressions nearly as blank as mine. Someone taps my shoulder. I whip around, avoiding eye contact. I see a man. I slowly lift my head to inevitably meet his eyes. My eyes slowly moved passed his perfectly plump...