2017 First Lines Contest
Il mio nome è Aggart, ma gli amici mi chiamano Agi. Mio padre era Rupert, detto “Maglio d’Acciaio” ed era uno dei migliori Maestri Armaioli del Regno del Nord, ma lui diceva sempre di essere solo un bravo fabbro ed era bravo davvero, mio padre. – Vedi figliolo – mi diceva, quando non ero più alto del sorbo che mia madre aveva piantato dietro casa alla mia nascita, – se sei sempre cosciente di quello che sei e soprattutto di quello che non sei, nessun vanto potrà alimentare in te arroganza e superbia così come nessuna malignità potrà ferire il tuo animo.
Category: Fiction /
- Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology
- Mystery & Detective
- Short Stories
Author: Ron Shaw
The unusual livestock killings began in earnest the first frost of 2016. Such was the way of life and death for the rural farming community of the North Georgia mountains, but near the Georgia and Tennessee border, the farmers had experienced nothing like the gluttony of carnage to come.
This is it. Heart thumping hard, Eylee’ai slipped over the rail of the ship, flowing into the shadows like a piece of liquid darkness. She kept her skin black as the night and body supple but shifted her hands into long talons, hard enough to rip out a man’s heart. Or a prince’s.
Category: Fiction /
- Action & Adventure
Author: Shyam Sundar Bulusu
The white van glided into the street ominously, slowly, and silently - the sound of its engine barely audible beyond the driver’s cabin - towards the two boys playing cricket oblivious to the heat from the scorching summer sun. It looked like a delivery van, with separate driver’s cabin and storage compartment. There were doors on both sides of the driver’s cabin with windows, which were fitted with either dark tinted glass or sun control film; the windscreen was of clear Perspex glass. The storage compartment had one door on the rear side. It had no windows. It had a small communication window with a wooden sliding shutter, which opened on to the driver’s cabin.
He waited for the opportunity for a week. He watched her for a week. He shadowed her for a week. He knew her routine thoroughly. He was happy that she was following the same routine on that day, too. He checked his trouser pockets. The things were safe. A smile broke out on his face. “At last…” he thought. He was excited once again.
Category: Fiction /
- Occult & Supernatural
Author: Shyam Sundar Bulusu
There was a peculiar nip in the cold air of that winter night in Chennai. The breeze that rose from nowhere danced through the open, grilled window. The twin pink colour, translucent, chiffon curtains separated, as if to make way for the breeze, and fell back in place afterwards. The Tanjore dancing woman on the study table began swaying her waist and neck languorously at the soft touch of the cool breeze. The sparkling plastic bead string curtains slowly oscillated as the breeze brushed past them and crossed the door into the drawing room. The wind chimes suddenly came to life and jingled softly, breaking the silence of the winter night.
Every successful covert operation has four vital elements. Or so the saying goes in most military organizations. Shoot. Move. Communicate. Survive.
Bodies pressed in on me on all sides. More were piled up beneath my feet. The grass, gorged with assorted fluids and trampled remains, squished under my boots as I carved open my opponent's chest, pushed him aside, and moved onto the next.
"Growing up in foster care made me think that I had no one to depend on but me especially as I got older. I had to be the best, work harder than the rest, and prove to everyone that I belonged to this world, in spite of being abandoned and neglected by my parents. My foster mom was fifty years my senior and seemed so bitter and depressed that she had to come back home to take care of her aging mother, so while she took care of me for the most part, the empowerment I needed to take my lemons and make lemonade where slim to none. "
Drip, drip, drip. The rhythmic beat of blood trickling on to the ground from the torso's right hip mesmerised Daniel Moxley. He counted the seconds it took each drop to travel from the man's waist to the concrete floor.
The tear trickled down my cheek. I decided I'd let it go wherever it wished. They deserved that.
To My Dearest, With mere words, how do I tell you the destruction of everything in my young life - all that I loved and lived for? How can I explain to you what sustained me through unimaginable evil, when I myself don't know the answer? And after I survived it, but with a soul that was hollowed into a nihilistic ache, how did I manage to carry on, even as unbearable memories pursued me everywhere, like a pack of wolves hounding their prey?
Jenny is my friend. Jenny is an average girl. She is a little on the dumpy side, she has mousy coloured hair and wears glasses; she is ‘the girl next door’, one you would not look at twice if you passed her on a busy street.
Once upon a far away hillside, in the shade of the forest oak trees, lived a whole community of white tailed, rabbits. Life was good, life was happy. The baby bunnies hopped, skipped and played all day long on the grassy hillside and, when they were tired, slept in the shade of the great oak trees branches.
The wail of a siren warned Larry that he’d been detected. Oh shit – he’d stayed too long. Either the Ziloni had spotted him from below, in spite of his care, or there were hidden intrusion detectors he hadn’t seen.
The echoing, thunderous footsteps gained on her, the ground shaking beneath her feet. Paige pushed every ounce of strength she had left into her throbbing legs and propelled herself forward through the eerie trees, peering over her shoulder into the pursuing darkness, her blood pounding in her ears. The creature was fast as lightning.
Caitriona had attended wakes which had begun well before the person to be waked had drawn their last breath. This would be another. She sighed and looked behind her as the cottage door opened and an elderly couple peered inside before quickly retreating.
I found the body on December 1. It was a horrible way to end an already terrible day. At first, I thought she was staring at me.
Reality is an illusion we create to convince ourselves nothing will ever change. I have learned change happens regardless of the reality we create. Sometimes it’s so subtle we don’t notice it, but other times it’s so dramatic it alters our lives in a very profound way.
"I do not ask for you to accept my dream as truth. You asked what came to me as I slept, and now I have told you of it. Knowing the future does not make you wise, Hacom, it only gives you a glimpse of what may come to pass. What you do with that knowledge is what shows the worth of a man."