Fiction

My thumb slammed in the door, rapidly turning purple. At first I didn’t even realize, I had become that numb to reality, similar to how my thumb was about to be. My neighbor, Mr. Smithers, waved at me from across the way.

The icy Penobscot wind cut through me like a blade as I stared at the crow, now just a crumpled shadow in the snow. My dad’s shot had silenced its call, and it lay there, broken and defeated, a symbol of my own helplessness.

Brazil, the year forgotten. The sun is rising. 

The ocean longs for her beloved moon but she has already gone down. The sun has taken her place and the water finds no comfort in him.

He grabs my hand like he did last week—it might even be at the same time if I remembered— and pulls me across the hallway stained with the cafeteria's red sauce that students have been spilling for ages, and into what he calls "our place

I jump in my friend's car.

It's filled basically to the brim.

The area is small and compact.

How did she fit this many people in her tiny car?

In the year 3050, the terrifying disease called Covid19 wasn’t something of the past. It was still the future, the present. Efforts to alleviate the virus hadn’t worked at all. 

—---------------------------------------------------

“Detective Holm.” 

“Sergeant.” Shirley greeted him with her usual monotone voice. 

Sergeant Greg didn’t appreciate over-energetic beings; Shirley saw someone getting fired for so much as laughing. 

The scribe set down his quill, noticing that the feather was translucent. In the Between, quills changed colors depending on the amount of ink left in the writing utensil. The quill was almost unusable, when it turned that color.

A frail professor paced back and forth across the classroom, waiting for the class to file in and sit in their respective seats. He was excited; an interesting lesson was coming up. 

Start Scene

Future Della, a girl with black hair cut short, looks up. She does a double take when she realizes that she isn’t in her bedroom. 

“Hi, Viktor! I didn’t think that I’d see you here!” 

Dear Diary, 

It was burning. 

The temperature had to be at least 100 degrees. 

It was so hot that it muddled my mind, coating my thoughts in molasses.