These stories can be any length. To start a story, use the add child page link below. As originator, you may elect to have some editorial control, other contributors should restrict their edits to adding new content or criticism, or editing text they previously contributed. (Note: edits should be limited to gramatical fixes and the like.)

Jackson looked left, then right. He cradled his pistol in his inner trench coat pocket. He could not help it; it was the only way he could stay calm before a kill.

The light in the two story window had just gone out; killing was so much easier in the dark. Much less noise and nastiness. When they did not see it coming, that was the best. He hoped tonight would be like that.

Tonight he would eradicate yet another abnormality. After tonight, there would be one less fish fucking fucker on the planet. He just did not understand it. If was getting so you could not walk down the street with out some watertrope spritzing you with sea water. This place was going to the fish. What was the attraction to a fish? So what if they could walk, they still needed those special suits to stay hydrated, and the stupid helmet made them look like a fifties scifi horror.

Medium length stories should be 5,000 words or less. Each contribution should be a few paragraphs or less.

To start a story, use the Add Child Page link below. As originator, you may elect to have some editorial control, other contributors should restrict their edits to adding new content or criticism, or editing text they previously contributed. (Note: edits should be limited to gramatical fixes and the like.)

Saunders hunched down behind the rock, poking his head as much as he dared, trying to get a view of what the enemy was doing. He felt his heart racing, and the warm flow of chemicals into his veins as his 'Suit struggled to calm him down. His rifle -- nestled over his left forearm while his trigger finger hung ready to squeeze -- seemed to weigh a ton. The metal rubber fabric of his 'Suit itched, and he felt sticky, sweaty. The 'Suit computer assured him his body temperature was a within acceptable limits, and although he trusted the 'Suit, he knew errors happened. The display fed into his right eye showed images from orbital cameras. The details were better then the view from his perch above them. Still, he needed to be able to see with his own real vision. Not that he didn't trust the electronics. Every soldier learned to trust the electronics, or died for ignoring it. Still, he knew errors happened.

Kara studied the ground hundreds of meters below the launch ramp and wondered whether the new adhesive would make any difference.

The yellow, pussy glue dribbled to the ground in long strands that stretched like taffy. Maybe this Nanopolymer was not such a good idea. She was so tired of falling thousands of feet, and even more tired of the crashing.

-- CmAmidon - 24 Nov 2004 -- AnnelieseFox - 11 Jul 2004

Short shorts should have a strong opening line and the whole story should be 1,000 words or less. Individual contributions should be a paragraph or less.

To start a story, use the add child page link below. As originator, you may elect to have some editorial control, other contributors should restrict their edits to adding new content or criticism, or editing text they previously contributed. (Note: edits should be limited to gramatical fixes and the like.)

We reached the safe house at midnight, sixteen hours after we'd escaped what was left of the Memphis airport.

"Don't call it a safe house," said Freya. "They'll find us eventually. But it gives us time to find a cure. Or a weapon."

The air inside was humid, stale, with the faint smell of blood. Nobody slept. Light leaked through slashed velvet draperies, trickled through barred windows and locked doors. Small pajamas lay, shredded, upon stained beds; Chinese ideograms crawled, wavering lines of rust-red and acid green, down the walls of the master bedroom.

We didn't ask who had lived there before us.

"The Fall of Imagination"

By the second knock, Radar was on all fours, barking at the door. "Do we have to get it?" Thomas asked, contemplating the sprinkles on his doughnut. Unconcerned, Damon bit into his raspberry filled Bavarian. Rolling her eyes, yet unable to contain a chuckle, Aunt K said, "Lazy bums. She pushed back her chair. "There isn't time," the voice came through the door. Then the door vanished--one second there, the next, gone. "W-W-Wha. . . Y-Y-You're, You're. . ." It was not like Aunt K to stutter. In a rush of breath, she pushed out the sentence. "You're dead."

-- CmAm

John watched the fire. It was beautiful. Sparks and flares like tiny fireworks erupted from every painted surface. Bright flames danced over the surfaces and sucked the life out of everything they touched. What was once colorful became black and dark as it fed the inferno. Still, while it lasted, the fire itself was beautiful.

Very soon, the work of thirty eight hopefuls would be nothing more than ash and memories. John watched in silence as the flames began nibbling at his entry, a painting that had been protected by the two chairs and chest tossed over it. Not that the painting had survived the unceremonious way that it had been rejected by the Masters Committee, but until the flames actually consumed it, John could imagine that the day had only been a bad dream.