I'm dead. Really dead. Not in the "there'll be a twist at the end and I'll be saved" kind of way. Just dead. I had died probably 15 minutes ago by a raving lunatic. I know, drastic way to go right? Actually, it was quite thrilling.
So, there I was walking on Park Street when I hear this noise coming off from the left. It wasn't like anything I'd heard before. I shouldn't have done it. I'd still be alive. Those are the choices we make I guess. Anyway, I go over to see what's up and this guy jumps...
Travel light, but take everything with you. That motto had served Herschel well all these years and he wasn't about to abandon it now.
He stepped over the fresh corpse. Putting down the gun, its barrel still hot and smoking, he went into the bathroom for his toothbrush, grabbed the bills from his roommate's rapidly cooling hands, and walked out the door.
He exited the train at Buenos Aires with only his wallet, his passport, and a set of old dice he had taken from a board game. Now that he was here he was realizing just how crazy this all was. That was why he was here, back home his girlfriend had broken up with him for being too indecisive, and he new he needed to change. He had spun the globe and when his fingers stopped the spinning sphere near Buenos Aires, he bought a ticket. He was boring, he knew that. Now was a time for change. He was...
The air raid sirens were going off. I could tell. Even from the thousands of feet above, I could hear the wailing of the sirens call. And that was fine. Most of the people below us would be dead by morning anyway. The tell tale rumble of the US sky-boats shook the fuselage of the Junker we were in, signalling our commanding officer to greenlight our jump. In the dwindling light of evening we leaped from our Ju-88, nicknamed Hati, and plummeted towards the blooming flowers below.
Allied parachutes blew up below us as we rocketed towards the earth. I...
Amelia sat happily cooing in her pushchair. It was the most perfect summer's day; barely a cloud in the sky, a slight breeze in the air. Jane looked down at her daughter. After four months, she still couldn't believe she had created her. This tiny, little bundle of perfection was made by her. Of course, Tony had played a role, but everyone knew that mothers did most of the work.
Amelia blew a raspberry; Jane smiled down at her. Who knew it could be possible to love someone so very much. It actually ached.
A wasp flew down, making itself...
Hero at Midnight
No one could remember who among them gave him the name Rooster; probably someone long gone by this point. A seventy percent casualty rate will leave one gaping hole in the communal memory. Everyone could remember why: yodeling and ukelele music in the pre-dawn hours was inexcusable by any measure. It had started after the battle for Hill 487. Most of Rooster's squad had been blown into pieces too small to put back together. Hence the coping mechanism. However, after two weeks of this crap, enough was enough, and Private Morlane drew the short stick: shut him...
Bombs were the last thing on his mind.
Everyone was hiding under desks, wary of the slightest sound whereas he was wondering how soon before people registered the change in him.
They might be in shock and forget. But what if they didn't? Would he have to convince the survivors they were hallucinating?
Crouching in under the lower shelve in the store cupboard Jack could feel his ears growing and wings strain against his shirt. It wouldn't be long before his faerie body would be a giveaway, hopefully the others would have been rescued by then and he could stay...
Fault. It is so common a word. Used by so many to allay the suspicion that they are truly the ones responsible. And who am I? I am no different.
My leg moved as if in a dream, gliding through time and space like it was made of water, no jelly, no gravity. It moved, ever so slowly towards a destination that I couldn't help but be brought to. Call it fate, call it fault call it whatever you will but in the end that is where I ended up. One foot in the street and another on the sidewalk....
My name is Mallard Duck.
I have BiPolar disorder.
I will fight it to the living end. And lose, probably
Starting with: this is the WOST topic ever posted here.
Still -- I'm a hero on a Ducky Scale for saying so.
One day a man called Gilbert played with small electrical appliances, he named this activity "duckery". He played so much his fingers became paranoid. This paranoia soon ran from his fingertips straight to his heart. After a couple of weeks he noticed a strange, yet, comfortable feeling in his upper right shoulder, he called this "proper". Proper became so "happening" that he made up words like "happening" and "bloodthirsty". But things started to take it's toll on poor old Gilbert. He lost his confidence in playing with small electrical appliances. He became depressed and fell in a coma, he named...