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Lit. Fiction - Short Stories and One-Shots
This folder is for original stories that are not based on factual events.
Please make sure that ANY mature content goes to either the MILD Mature (non-filtered), or MATURE CONTENT (filtered) folders.
FanFiction should go to the relevant folders.
Mature contentThe Search For Power: Preview AwsomeIsRed 0 0
Standing at the edge of the portal to world above, the demon flexed his long dangerous claws and hummed in thought. It was nearing the end of the month, and his quota for human hearts. Infecting them with sin, or stealing them completely. Lucifer didn't care how, he just wanted humans under his reign. Anyway he could. Few demons had that responsibility, Ariste was just one of those lucky ones. And he loved it. It did his black heart good to infect worthless humans with sin and malice.
Right now, he was trying to decide who to be today. Obviously he could not journey to the world above looking the way he did in his demon form. He was tall, taller then any human, and thin. His skin was leathery and black as night, all over, head to toe. He didn't wear clothes but neither did he have identifying genitals to be embarrassed over either. The hip long jet black hair certainly set him apart from most humans.
The large bla
The Lady Apparition
I am a woman of manners. I bow, I ate properly, and I be kind to people. I've been headmistress of Scottswells' Elegance Academy. But I wasn't always like this. In fact, back in my teenage years, I was a terrible rotten brat. I mean really rotten.
I would play hooky, litter, cheat, date greasers and bad boys behind my parents and take my parents money without permission. My parents soon couldn't take it anymore and told me that if I'm going to get anywhere in life, that I should start acting like a lady. So they forced me to transfer to Scottswells' Elegance Academy. I thought it was for squares and uptight snobs.
They all dressed the same, hey acted like waiters at fancy schmancy restaurants, and they are cleaned pressed. Looking back on it now makes me see how spoiled I was. My name is Leanor Lavane, once spoiled brat.
Even in the weeks that they had taught or at least try, I had shown nothing but how to be a Miscreant. The headmistress at the time Ms. Dina Quartell gave me ugly look
The maiden in the painting
I had always been good with plants. I was able to turn amazing works of nature into art for nobles. Many people would pay for my grand work, they would want me to make various shapes and forms out of the shrubs. I was very proud of my work. I thought the very hands I was born with were a sign of the grand power above.
Nothing would make me turn away from a grand display of gardening. Until, one day, I received a letter from far across the country. A widowed nobleman with the name Ikolide Benditbarkerten, who was trying to find the best gardener for his manor. What they would be willing to pay for me to be their personal gardener was the largest amount of money I had ever read, let alone had. I felt a sense of amazement, at the employment they had requested, so I went off to the castle.
Soon after, I wished that I had never even accepted the position at that place. The carriage brought me to the Silver and Black castle of the Benditbarkerten. The sky that hung below the castle was as da
Pretty Pretty Alice
I can't remember a time when anything was as frightening as the day I came to Wimwall Estate. A once large family empire famed for their finest alcohol, now abandon after the family tree was cut short. I was not so sure on the details on what happened, but I manage to buy this old place and turn it into a museum of the Wimwalls colorful history.But looking back now, I wish I'd never set foot in that place.
After setting everything up and getting things ready for our tourist, one of my employees, Tomas Edd came rushing and stuttering about Coffins in a secret room. After an hour of calming him down, we followed him to the study and he flipped a switch, opening a secret room that held the coffins.We checked the coffins labels to read Alice Wimwall on the left and Phil Grey Wimwall on the right. They were the last of the Wimwall generation.
But the thing spelled our doom. What was on the coffins was never to be separated from them. On Alice's final resting place was an old 155-year-old po
I was too tired to do anything. That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I sat in front of the television, splayed out across the couch like a beached starfish. I’d given up. Anxiety had won for the day, which meant that nothing less than a fire or a severe case of peckishness could have made me move from that spot.
Meanwhile, my poor main character, a thirteen-year-old girl by the name of Quinn, had been totally abandoned in the over-revised, underdeveloped first few paragraphs of Chapter One. I glanced over at my computer screen. I could almost see her there, frozen in place, waiting impatiently for me to get off of my lazy bum so that she could go somewhere and do something.
“Do what? Go where?” I asked her.
She glared out at me from the world beyond the screen. “Anywhere,” she replied (or, so I imagined). “I don’t care. Just get me out of this stupid room!”
A Time Traveling Story
One morning, a man named Peter woke up on his living room couch, as turned around to see the TV was still on. Peter sighed as he found the remote on the living room carpet that was next to his couch, as he grabbed it to shut the television off. Then, once he did that he heard a voice coming out of nowhere as it said.
"Arg, I am........ So tired right now........."
Peter was a bit shocked out first by the sound, until he looked on the floor to see Red just lying on the floor with all of the popcorn and chip bags were lying all around him, ads he lifted his head in a confused state of a daze, as he looked at Peter and asked.
"Hey Peter, why is this room a complete mess again?"
"Well......... Um......... I’m not so sure Red. I think......... I think we were celebrating last night but........."
Peter trailed off at that moment, as he tried to gather up his memory of what happened, since it felt like they both celebrated and freaked out so much about whatever it was from last night, t
Code Double Blue
As Rupert the Toxicroak looked upon his firstborn son, he cuddled the boy’s Lopunny mother with the joy of achieving his first day as a father. He held them close. He held his family to the point of a tear or two, Vanilla’s tears many more in number. He looked upon his hetero life partner, and she back in his heavily emotional eyes. She wrapped her arms around his neck and their lips met for their future. The newly hatched Buneary below them was indifferent.
Once their lips broke contact, they turned to face all who cared to join them on this day. Of course, Vanilla’s crew could all join, but only five from Rupert’s have the privilege outside their home. His two obvious choices were his best friends, Veruka the Infernape and Vincent the Lucario, but their trainer Elisa had to choose who could fly them all. That choice was Matthew the Honchkrow. The last two spots Rupert chose were not so much for sharing his joy as it was for further rubbing in their face that n
-Laura From Now On- a short story
She flexed her tender aching wings in her sleep. I can’t reach the place where she lays. Reality is such a flexible thing. It changes person to person. What matters is how reality is perceived. Even so, I cannot escape my own reality. I can bend it, and bend it, but it will never be broken. I have an insatiable yearning to shatter this world. I reached though the smoky images floating seconds away. I was reaching for her. She stirred once more and sent ripples though time. Ah, Iris, you’re so beautiful. You don’t know it, but you are.
I curse myself every time this happens. I torture myself. I talk down to myself. I hate myself. I’m so gluttonous. How many innocents must I sacrifice before I am appeased? I don’t know. I can’t stop. I can’t remember when it started. Every time it starts I say, “This will be the last
Drifting Clouds (MLP fanfic)
The memories we have, make us a part of who we are. They shape us each and every day for better or for worse. Some memories are of years gone by; some are from the small glimpses of childhood that come to our remembrance. Others may just be of a single day. As much as we want to revisit things, time is in control. It tells us what to do, where to go, and it gives no explanations. As I sit here in my room, looking out my window, I see the snow piling up like small mountains outside. How is it, that in a time where all the flowers have died, summers have fade, and the sun is obscured by clouds, that everything could be so beautiful? I’ve always loved snow, ever since I was a small colt. It brings back happy times in my life. However, it also brings back bittersweet memories, and questions; like photographs in the mind. It’s good to keep mementos of times gone by, even if they may appear painful at times. Whenever you see them, which may be every single day, it brings yo
-No Reason- a short story
“Iris where on earth did those marks on your neck come from?”
“They came from a dream I had.” It was true, but my mom wouldn’t believe me. I hardy believed it myself. She tore apart my explanation as I drank the sweet pink milk leftover from my cereal.
“That’s impossible you probably got bit by a spider.” Mom didn’t eat breakfast with me. I was usually about finished by the time she woke up.
“I got bit by a girl.”
“Come on put your shoes on, we got to get going.” She completely ignored what I said. That happens a lot. Not just with my mother, just with anyone. Whenever I tell them or show them something strange they ignore it. Sometimes I wonder if it upsets them.
It was raining the morning I woke from that dream. The rain on the windshield created translucent blue gray shadows on my lap.
“I think I knew that girl be
-Satisfied- a short story
I was so frail, like a withered flower. October’s gentle rain couldn’t revive me; October’s gentle rain couldn’t wash the bloodstains away. I was running as quickly as the wind would let me, though the cool night air ripped through my lungs. All the familiar houses and streets became unwelcoming and harsh. My mind was in chaos, my body was trembling. ‘What have I done? What have I done?’
But that was just a broken piece of my memory. A sliver of humanity plunged deep into my brain. Giving me nightmares and headaches. I don’t remember my past. Only small fragments come to haunt me from time to time. Even underground in my coffin, some small nightmare slips through the cracks just to torture me.
On nights like this I just need to get out. I need to cast my worries away and see the sights touched with moonlight. I need to be left alone until my trembling heart stops.
-Only Me- a short story
I can't just exist. But I can't live either. I was never meant to live in a world like this. I'm sure of that. Where is the reality I desperately seek? Where is the end of my dream? When I wake up, will I want to go back to sleep?
I don't think I was ever born. I don't remember anything but pain. The pain I cause others. The pain inside my mind. Like a headache that never fades. If I reach out for help I drag that helping hand into the shadows. Into unknown darkness and torment. Nightmares. Perhaps I am a nightmare within a large beautiful dream.
It must be a beautiful dream. Because I met someone from outside, someone pure. Though the world is twisted and cruel she kept her sadness inside, it bloomed again and again within her soul. She came to me with a smile.
I can't remembe
Lessons Learned in a Big Ol' Dress
Iris stepped out onto the stone balcony. With a delicate sigh, she ran her silk-gloved hands along the ivory railing and looked out across the moonlit grounds, her colossal dress trailing out behind her. This was it. The stage was set, she knew her lines. This was her moment.
So why didn't it feel right?
She just couldn't put her finger on it. After all, it was she who’d dreamed up this world in the first place, she who’d created its vast landscapes, the bustling cities beyond them, and the people that existed in and in between. The moment literally couldn't have been more perfect if she'd thought it up herself—because, well, she had. This was her story, her novel, for crying out loud! She was in it, experiencing it for real!
So why did she feel so gosh darn unhappy about the whole thing?
For the billionth time that evening, Iris thought of the friends she’d made during th
This was exactly what she needed, a tired middle aged woman thought, rolling her eyes at the brake lights lined in front of her van.
Slamming her hands against the steering wheel, she then sat back and folded her arms across her chest. Really? A traffic jam now? At one thirty in the afternoon? She glanced around and noticed several construction signs. The orange diamonds were announcing they would be hosing up the daily commute for God knows how long, most likely longer than they were scheduled to.
She groaned and raised a wary eye to the rearview mirror. Her three kidsvarying in age from two to sevenwere starting to get slightly antsy. They werent exactly testing her patience yet but give it a few minutes in the slow crawl and they would be in revolt. They werent bad kids exactly, relatively well behaved most of the time, but she could only expect so much out of her little ones. They were their mothers children after all.
Ten minutes l
The Claire Witch Project
There are many things you can easily explain to your parents. Accidentally blowing up your uncle is not one of them.
“You are so busted, Claire,” said my sister Lindsay, eying the singed curtains and the freshly made crater in my bedroom floor. “Wait until Dad finds out you were practicing transmorph spells in your room unsupervised.”
“We can still fix this,” I replied hurriedly, switching spellbooks on my Kindle. But I’d only downloaded the basic transmorph spells and hadn’t gotten the counter-curses yet. Blast it.
“Claire, look!” Lindsay hopped off my bed and stepped towards the crater. “It worked!”
Sure enough, in the center of the ring of scorched carpet was a small green newt with a wide face like Uncle Isaac’s and bulbous eyes his exact shade of blue.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “We can change him back before Mom gets home—”
Suddenly, we heard the doors downstairs blow open and
With a shove of the door, te cold air rushes into my face like a long forgotten lover, assaulting me like a madman. I hurry along my way, eager to reach my destination.
The cold slowly becomes a figure, then a man. It’s Jack Frost, the delusional freeze. His icy fingers wrap around my neck, choking me with their chill. He easily overpowers me, lusting for the soft warmth of my body. The King of Winter bites mercilessly at my earlobes, hissing what are supposed to be sweet nothings into my ear. Instead, they burn the tips of my ears, branding them a deep scarlet.
Desperate for my attention, Jack slaps either of my cheeks. I feel his overpowering essence all over me; nothing is safe from his ravaging. My nose runs incessantly; I sniffle without successfully doing anything. Jack gives me bite-kisses all over my face, tightens his grasp around my neck. I struggle for breath, utterly consumed by his cold ferocity. Winter’s clutch forces my mouth open in a desperate act for fresh
Longingly, the black bird looks out the window to her right. The bars holding her within the cage remain as cold and merciless as ever, giving barely enough room for her to open her full wingspan. The tips of her wings graze along the iron bars of her cage, causing pain to ripple up her wings from the unnatural imprisonment. She squawks in discomfort, loses her wings tightly and quickly, and tries to center herself on the bar running through the middle of the cage.
The Raven looks out the window and remembers times long past, when she was free. It was so long ago that she can no longer recall what air felt like between her feathers, or what the sun felt like on her back. She only remembers that, out there, she had something she could never have in here: her freedom. The distant memory of what freedom felt like faded farther and farther from her mind, but still she longer for it. That freedom was her birthright; it was all she had known for the beginning years of her life. Now that she
Nobody knew how old the Luboneks were, but they’d lived at the top of Pecan Hill since before Cumberland was built, and the town grew up around them. Mr. Lubonek had a voice like gravel and always smelled of engine grease, sweat, and the gritty scent of someone whose friends were machines and whose family were the tools he kept in the shed. Mrs. Lubonek was airy as a bird and every bit as flighty, yet there was a sharp, witty glint in her eye that you only caught if you were looking for it.
The Luboneks lived a simple, dusty life atop Pecan Hill. Mr. Lubonek ran a small mechanic shop out of his garage and Mrs. Lubonek sold baked goods. Despite their humble background they were moderately successful in Cumberland, but you could never tell. Most people said they hid all their income in a ratty black doctor’s bag Mr. Lubonek kept just inside the front door. Or maybe the bag held Mrs. Lubonek’s pie recipes. Or maybe it held a treasure map or a severed hand or the secret t
A Night at Pinetop's Tavern
Somewhere in the back alleys of the city's older section there was a crumbling brick building that had been around since before ragtime music was popular. Hanging above a faded green door that led down to the building's cellar was a wooden sign, and despite the peeling paint, you could still make out the bar's name: Pinetop's Tavern. Nobody really knew when Pinetop's first opened; local folks would tell you it had been there since time began, and the world had grown up around it. It was one of those places where the lighting was always dim and the cigarette smoke never dissipated and the cloud you were breathing now had probably been around since W. C. Handy was still alive.
Pinetop's Tavern was a blues joint, and it had been around almost as long as blues music itself. Blues music was a lot simpler than most kinds of musicsimpler chords, simpler lyrics, and most blues musicians couldn't read sheet music. The genre was born on some unknown plantation in the forgotten Deep
-Blindfolded- a short story
"I'm blindfolded. Why am I blindfolded?" I felt Mab circle around me.
"I want you to listen to my voice. What does it sound like?"
"It's soft…and you have a light accent." She grabbed my shoulders and whispered in my ear.
"What kind of accent?"
"I don't know. What country are you from?" She rested her chin on my shoulder and exhaled.
"The October Country, maybe?" Her hands slid down my arms and departed. Leaving fingerprints and warmth on my skin.
"That's just the name of a book I read."
"So? Tell me, Iris, what do I smell like?"
"You smell like the library. Old books." My face was hot beneath the blindfold. Her scent was all around me. Swirling like the frantic winds that ended summer. I imagined leaves would be falling from the sky like gold coins. Autumn is the richest season of all.
"That's not a nice smell. How mean."
"I think it's a good smell."
"You smell like sunlight and summertime. Winter must feel long and lonely for you, for someone who was born in
No Turning Back
"You're sure you know what you're doing, young lady?"
"And you're certain you want to go through with this?"
". . . Yes."
A sly grin. "Right this way."
The tall, wiry man steps out from behind his desk and motions me to the back of his dark, dusty shop. I'm only slightly hesitant in following, wondering suddenly if this isn't the kind of situation in which a girl might be taken advantage of. But amidst the shelves and shelves of ancient objects, I catch a glimpse of a thin-bladed samurai sword to my right, and reassure myself that, were Mr. Beanpole here to try anything funny, I could lunge for the sword and wield it for all its worth. I nod, pleased with if not proud of my plan of attack.
"Come along, come along! You haven't much time!" As we near the back of the shop, he flattens himself against a shelf, motions me to pass. I hold my breath, doing my best to avoid contact wit