Fable

Wonderful Fantasy
On a sunny morning, I went to the Space-X rocket launch site with twenty of my classmates. We were about to take a rocket to outer space and start our summer trip to outer space.
By VioletHolt4 years ago in Fiction
Wonderful island adventure
My companions and I - the brave and reckless fat and knowledgeable big sister embarked on an adventure. Stepping off the boat, the ground was covered with grass, there were many big rocks, some trees on the right, and many mushrooms under the trees, Big Sister started giving orders, "Everyone split up and observe the terrain ......" After that, we each ran in our direction, and after a while, I suddenly heard Fatty shouting, "There's a cave here! There is a cave here ......" I followed the direction of the voice and coincidentally, I saw my elder sister also come over. This is a huge and incomparable cave, surrounded by a hundred grasses and trees to cover the sky, and very comfortable. Fatty's feet just half a step into the cave, a large group of unknown animals, then show their teeth to chase us. Thirty-six plans, running is the best plan, we ran desperately, ran to a bamboo forest, those animals did not catch up. Seeing that the environment here is very good, I and the fatty went to pick up wood stones with leaves hitchhiking the woman named Kris asked me, "But my first warning, the islanders do not like archaeologists." I felt very strange because I was an archaeologist myself and was there specifically to study the megaliths.
By MerleVillalobos4 years ago in Fiction
Alice Martin
She woke this time on a train. As it sped through the early morning light Alice felt eerily out of place as she always did upon arriving in Wonderland.
By Melissa Eaves4 years ago in Fiction
Tequila Train
My eyes open. I'm staring at the ceiling of a train. I don't know how I got here, and I certainly don't have a ticket. I stand up to look, and I see many people around me. They are dancing and cheering, drinking and eating. They are happy.
By E. C. Gabriel4 years ago in Fiction
Celestial Hobbies
It was thrust into consciousness and light. Then there was pain. It cried, but the feeling passed, and it was able to focus. It found itself sitting on a bench in a room full of other, empty benches. They formed two, identical columns down the length of the room, separated by an aisle that ran between doors at each end. Every bench had recently been painted green, and was shining in the light coming through the windows along the walls. Outside the windows, a colorful landscape slowly passed by. It instinctively gripped its seat upon realizing the room was in motion. A soft, electric hum vibrated through the bench with a sound to match coming through the open windows. It peered out a window and saw a procession of train cars ahead, rolling along a curving track, and towing the room it was in. It recognized that the room was, in fact, a passenger car on a train, and it swelled with excitement. Climbing out of the bench, it walked up the aisle towards the front of the car. But when it reached for the handle on the door, its hand collided against a flat wall. It stepped back and discovered that the door was merely a painting on the wall. It hurried back down the aisle, but found the same to be true for the rear door; no exit, just a painting of a door on a solid wall. Its eyes grew wide as it turned to face its enclosure.
By Alex Johnson4 years ago in Fiction
Life is always somewhere else
In the early 1960s, I abandoned the town of my birth and moved to Dublin. The word "discard" is appropriate. For the first 18 years of my life in Wexford, I thought of it as nothing more than a staging post on my way somewhere else. I have so little interest in this town that I can't even be bothered to remember most of the street names. If I had to imagine a word to describe my indifference to my birthplace, to its history, and to the complex and nuanced lives of its inhabitants, it would be not just "arrogant" but "stupid" and "wasteful." In my surroundings there was a world interesting enough to warrant the attention of an artist (from the earliest days I had no doubt that I would be an artist of my own) -- and this was abundantly evident in the writings of writers born in Wexford. Colm Toibin, Eoin Colfer and Billy Roche were among them. These three men, and Roache in particular, had minted large amounts of valuable money out of what I regarded as base metal -- I did not even care to look at it.
By twddn4 years ago in Fiction
RUNAWAY
RUNAWAY BY CHRIS FITZPATRICK Over the muffled rumble of the train gliding on its tracks Lotus says, she hates men and that I’m the exception to the rule. She says, she loves me and trusts me, even though she doesn’t trust anyone.
By Chris Phitz4 years ago in Fiction
You Read This Far!
This train fuel by a portion from the soul that creates instantaneous! Now anything, was an actual character alive with a concept of consciousness which understood everything! The souls propulsion by the peace of heart.
By Earl Bennett4 years ago in Fiction
Live & Learn
I woke up screaming . . . sort of. It was just the tail end of a scream, really. I must've been screaming before I woke up, which carried into my waking life, like that feeling of falling in a dream just to find yourself flailing out of sleep.
By Alex Widovic4 years ago in Fiction
A story with ants
I found a large ant nest in the small vegetable garden. I poked it with a branch and the ant nest did not fall apart. A few patrolling ants ran into the hole in a panic. When I picked it up again, the four-way passage was revealed, but I still didn't find an ant. Could it be that the ants were not patrolling, but just running into a small hole for refuge? I had my doubts. I continued stabbing reluctantly, and finally, there were more and more ants running out of the hole in a panic ......
By VioletHolt4 years ago in Fiction
Alone and on Rails
I am dead. Else, this is a dream from which I am unable to escape. Waking from a dreamless sleep I took a moment to stare at the ceiling, loathe to start another day. I first noticed the scrolling, a colorful rendition of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel adorned the ceiling of my small room. The fragrance of strong coffee brought my mind into focus. Where was I?
By Nate Rowell4 years ago in Fiction
Hell Train
I felt like I had been awake for hours, just not conscious of my surroundings. The smooth, rhythmic whooshes and the gentle jostling and swaying could have been going on for days and I wouldn’t have known. Blinking and realizing that my eyes weren’t closed, it was just dark, I started to piece together my situation. I had been asleep, or awake but drowsy. I was in pitch plack, sitting on a soft seat; and it sounded like I was on a train. I moved my hands over my body, searching my pockets. No phone, no keys, no wallet, nothing.
By Julianna Huckaby4 years ago in Fiction