“I don’t like this alternate universe, Lucy.”
“Why not, Jerry?
“I’m afraid I’ll be bored to death. The only web browsers here are spiders.”
“You want excitement? Did you look closely at the steam-powered train?”
“What about it?”
“Forget cows and buffalo; the locomotive is equipped with a dinosaur catcher!”
John H. Dromey recently had short fiction published in Saturday Night Reader and a novella in Weird Western Yarns Vol. 3.
The pool is small in diameter, but its water is solid black. Its emptiness echoes through me.
In my dreams I’m always a child, accidentally crashing my bike into the black water pond.
Now I stand at its edge as a fully grown man, and I’m ready to dive in.
Eric White is a student at Full Sail University, where he is pursuing a degree in creative writing. He loves all forms of storytelling, and one day plans to utilize his skills writing within the entertainment industry.
Her desk was littered with scraps of paper, each scrawled with its own collection of words, representing a thousand grasped-at memories.
It wasn’t working. They wouldn’t come back.
She stoked the fireplace and began dropping the papers in, one by one. Forget the yesterdays: time to start working on tomorrow.
This story was based on the prompt “scraps of paper” at TypeTrigger.
Doubloons without number. The crown of some distant land. A necklace that once hung on the neck of a Shah’s daughter. All this and more he had buried in the sand and in the past. The map was a temptation he could ill afford.
He should burn it.
Ruaridh Buchanan is making his first forays into writing down the thoughts and stories that whirl through his head when he should really be concentrating on something more important like earning a living. Doubtless this will result in bankruptcy or at the very least a blog at some stage in the near future.
I thought stasis would be like sleeping: I’d close my eyes on Earth, and open them a hundred light-years away. I thought it would be an escape.
But it was more like a dream, a slow swirl of half-reality. I spent ten years inside my own head, reliving that memory.
This story was based on the prompt “that memory” at TypeTrigger.
They camped out on the side of the mountain, within a stone’s throw of the moon. A campfire warmed their bodies; anticipation warmed their hearts.
Tomorrow was the summit day, the flag-raising day. The pinnacle. The peak.
Beyond that was the descent, so aptly named.
Reminiscence is colder than anticipation.
This story is based on a title suggested by @brucerytel.