A Short Story : A Story?

Joe woke up. He turned his head to the left to look it at his clock. It read June 28 2020. He could feel the warm summer air in his room and the smell of breakfast coming from down the hallway. He opened his door and looked down the hallway and saw his father cooking bacon and eggs. He could hear his mom in the shower listening to music. He walked down his hallway say “good morning” to his dad as he walked by his dad. His dad just looked in his direction and kept cooking. As he sait down he felt something was off about his dad. His dad was a very talkative person with something always on his mind dieing to tell anyone.

or recruited a Tom Cruise. It wasn’t important who started the fights. Both the obstacles and the triumphs enhanced the journey and swayed the reckoning of the mirrors.

Ringing the doorbell several times, Karen screamed, pounding on the door, she yelled, “Wake up Dan. Wake up, Dan! I need your help.”

He was right there in front of me, kneeling with arms out-stretched, waiting for me to jump in them. His face was indistinguishable because of the shadow his cover cast upon it, but a smile was clearly on his face; and I knew, my eyes shining with emotion, were reflected somewhere under that cover. I ran to him as fast as my legs could carry me, but before I could reach him, the world around me transformed and I was alone once more. I was outside, in front of my climbing tree, around its trunk was the ribbon. I hated this ribbon and wished with all my might that I could tear it down. It was the yellow service ribbon- a, "ribbon of waiting" my mother used to call it. It was nothing but a reminder, a signal to everyone around us. All it did was mock me with its presence, mocked me with the cruel reminder that the man I was running after would always be just out of my grasp, unattainable to me.

Craig shifted in his seat; the wooden chair was so uncomfortable. He was in a corridor, lined with identical chairs occupied by more young men of about his age. The corridor smelled like polish and floor cleaner, and was painted a dull grey and cream. A few feet away stood a tough looking soldier, immaculately dressed in a dark green uniform and carrying a large wooden cane. Every few minutes a light bulb hanging above a doorway would flash, a buzzer would sound and the soldier jabbed the man sitting closest to him with his cane.

She was scared, lost, and confused. Anyone could tell simply by looking in her eyes. As she stared out the window, Margaret could see it all. She saw every fear spelled out in the woman’s eyes. Margaret’s heart cried out in pain as it broke into several pieces.

“Hannah drove her to the doctor,” Shaw told him. “She needed something to help her relax.”

Nat pulled a stool forward and sat down, leaning forward put the cigarette up to the top of the flame, the flame lapped at the cigarette for a while until the end glowed red like the embers of the fire. Nat withdrew the cigarette from the flame, put it up to his mouth, hesitating then sighed and gently put the cigarette in between his lips. It hung downwards, as he drew in a deep breathe, allowing the smoke to fill his mouth, he gently blew out and watched the blue-grey smoke filled the air around him. “Tomorrow, during the next tide, I’ll have to go out and see if there are any survivors,” Nat sighed, “If we can find anyone maybe they’ll know of a safe place.”

"Seriously, you should totally do it" Max threw his head while letting out a low laugh that was escaping his lips. His muscular body was leaning against the bar watching the sea of teens dancing and drinking around like it was their last day living

The summer had seemed too short for Maxine Caulfield and anxiety filled her as she loaded her school bag and prepared for her first day back to class.

He checked his rearview. Several cars back a white van followed. He’d noticed it twice now. It was the kind of van the mob used, no side or back windows, a solid screen separating the cab from the rear. He’d keep an eye on it. Doing so was second nature. Used to following, he was expert at knowing when he was followed. But the van turned off.

I awoke from my bed and saw my sister’s eyes filled, all of a sudden she shouted, “Mama is sick, wake up, mama is sick!”

The putrid purple of old bruises gleamed helplessly against the limpid replacements— it was all my fault.

The warm garlic bread scraped and clawed in my throat, begging not to be thrown into the dark dungeon, known as my stomach. Still, I held my nose and swallowed. I tore piece after piece of the garlic bread and plopped them into my mouth, begging myself to swallow. They’re still watching, I thought as I grabbed the last piece of garlic bread.

Most people who’d undergone pain would say that going home after an incident would be the worst part, having to deal with the aftermath of their emotional outbursts and what was happening. Vivian, however, felt nothing as she walked. The cold wind was biting through her, and she could sense that rain was coming nearby, mainly due to the odd twinge in the air that she’d learned to avoid having a delicate instrument with her at all times. Yet now she walked through the streets alone, each step pressing on the cold stones underneath her and making her that much more worried as to what she was going to do.