Undeterred Short Stories

The chill of winter air had nudged her from her slumber. Gazing through the window upon the dreary horizon, the blur of gray told Hulga that rain was nearing. Nervously, she backed into the corner away from the window and curled up next to a pile of hay and settled in. Soon after repositioning herself, Hulga heard the consistent patter of rain on the roof of the barn. Her eyes watered as she wondered if her mother had been frantically searching for her.

"Can it wait, Trenor?" The Countess moaned, wrapping her blankets over her head, wishing for that five more minutes of rest.

It was early in the morning: Ruby left the tent, bleary eyed, and made his way through the field. Unbound by the decaying fence, the cows had strayed to the far end of the clearing. Ruby hopped the fence and began towards them; knowing the ritual, they stayed put.

“You did the right thing.” Leaning back in her chair and adjusting the folds of her skirt, she glanced over at him. “She hasn’t spoken

“Obviously, can you HELP me up!” She then squatted down and helped me up. I rested against the bed as she spoke.

To clarify, I don’t like books, while admittedly the do offer a nonpareil tactical experience, it is the stories they contain that provide the heft of their value. Storytelling is intrinsic to who we are as human beings, and how could it not be, when we have been telling them ever since we had a break long enough between hunting and being hunted to get one out. We tell them because at their root they share the goal of deepening our understanding of what it means to be human. They are not told merely between the bindings of a book, but though work of mouth, art, dance, and the one that really makes my soul swirl: music. Which is why my story about a book whose story changed me at my crux begins with a song.

She took a quick look around the last turn before the main street that led to the school. She noticed several boys and girls in the alleyways on both sides of the narrow street. It looked as if every class at her school, several young ladies and even her teacher waited for her in ambush. She ducked back before they could see her, hiked up her dress, and ran as fast as her little legs could carry her in the opposite direction of the angry mob. She didn’t stop until she had found the forest path that she needed and breathed a sigh of relief when she heard no one in pursuit. The forest surroundings felt different for some reason and it frightened her. It had a forbidding feel to it this dawn like she had never felt in the past.

The day’s fine drizzle had broken and the sun gleamed on the cold, sodden village with its mud-slicked square and dark-stained wooden and clay buildings. Alyn remained in his battered and dented mail and plate, with a thin and billowy pale surcoat belted above in addition to sword and dagger which he had also borrowed from Lord Porter for the occasion. Rose had conjured up yet another dress, bright white and of thick, sturdy weave with a high

Hester’s heart fell as the realization of her situation washed down upon her. “I don't rightly know sir.” After traveling a short ways they finally reached the woman’s small cottage which was nearly as beautiful as her. Delicately growing ivy climbed it's way up the walls and wild flowers grew at the base of the cottage. The only thing that could draw away from the magnificent scene was the dark, grisly weeds surrounding the wild flowers.

He drew back the curtains, and surveyed the moonlit parking lot in silence for half a minute, then returned his gaze to Lexi's. "It's going to be a long day, so at least one of us should try and get some rest. I'll keep

A painful groan sounded from somewhere unseen in the starlight, and I cautiously approached the trees to my left. I then remembered there had been a sharp crack, like a branch breaking in a spring storm. Emma was lying on the ground on top of what used to be a low wooden fence, the blackened soles of her feet facing me. The first thing that came to mind in that moment was that she had the dirtiest feet I had ever seen, and for some reason this bothered me more than the fact that she had broken what was probably national property. She grasped my sweaty palms in hers and heaved herself up, remarkable unscathed from her tumble. I suppose she was hurting a lot more than she could currently process. The pieces of fence, slick with humidity, lay splintered at our feet. Paler wood that had been freshly exposed with the break, stared at us accusingly. Without a word we continued onto the path that cut through to her

Once upon a time in a place similar (100% might be the same world that we live in), lived one man and this man is known as Blank. This is not gonna be like the other origin stories, this one is gonna be so random that you would think that this make no sense. Soon you will realize everything in the story has another meaning so let's get right into the story.

Mrs Hutchence eyed the sky nervously, the clouds that had been wispy and white that morning were now darker and denser, and the usual virescent hues of the Land were muted. Gone were the sweeping blue skies of yesterday, now awash with various shades of bronze with a greenish edge to it that hurt her eyes. She had been waiting for Janet McIvor, to go about their usual routine working with the bees. A few days had passed since Gemmy come to stay with her, and the McIvor’s were still on edge. This time, Janet came alone, and as made her way across the dry field, Mrs Hutchence started to feel a chill. Janet looked up to her, and met her gaze with an eye of interest (solemn expression?). Mrs Hutchence

Arlene had the paper tucked under her arm and a mug of coffee in each hand. “Mind if I join you in our last moment of peace?”

It took very long, but by sunset, she recognized her farm and her fields. But it had been destroyed. The fields looked as if they had erupted, and her animals were missing. But her house was the saddest . . . it was gone. All her belongings were scattered everywhere.