It was hard to send a message in a bottle when you didn't even have the bottle.
Harry sighed as he put the folded bit of paper into the stream, hoping it would be carried to someone who would find him. Someone with better navigational skills than he had anyway. He couldn't even write his location, because he hadn't the slightest Goddamn idea where he was. GPS didn't do a hell of a lot of good with a dead phone, and if he hadn't slipped down that muddy slope...
Nevermind.
He rested along the stream's edge and looked up at...
"So anyway that was what he said yesterday and she wouldn't agree with anything he was...."
The sound drifted away as he continued to stare straight across the carriage. It was the same every morning, she would complain about everything that happened the day before, all the way in on the train, and then again that evening, all the way home.
He, well, he would do the same as always every morning, stare straight ahead at the woman directly across from him. She was beautiful. Here light browne hair rested neatly on her shoulders as she read what seemed to...
Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway.
It was raining, her hair was plastered to her face in a black sheen as she raised her arm to cover her head, even though she was already soaked through. The once beautiful crimson dress made of expensive silk now hung in tatters. Black kohl and the remains of red blush slide down her cheek, collecting in the dimples of each side of her face. The jade hairpin holding up an elaborate hairstyle had long since fallen out, leaving her long wave of black hair spilling...
his is what it’s like when you get lost. the thorns of red vines stick into your fingertips as you try to shield your face. your feet kick up the smell of old leaves, and it makes you think of suburban autumnal piles, of the hot cider that your father always made you. it’s strange to think of it now. you’re so far in, working your way towards the belly of the beast. what was waiting for you there? you stop for a moment. you are having queer thoughts. it’s then you feel the change. your hair is the color...
He set the plate before her. It was barely covered, a thin, fatty slice of what looked like baloney slapped alongside hard, molding bread. It had been arranged carelessly, lazily, and the boy snarled at her before he left, sliding the table back with his exit as he walked away, back into the kitchen. Sighing, Alina pulled the plate towards her chest, her elbows banging against the table as she slid the meat off the plate and diligently placed it on the bread, bracing herself for the stale taste as she chewed purposefully. The apartment was empty, the walls barren...
Lost but he couldn't stop hearing those footsteps, in his mind. They kept going on and on. Jack could hear his footsteps echoing.
Jack sat there engulfed in smoke – hoping the ash-filled clouds would somehow shield him from the pain.
Her body flew through the air, so unnaturally, like a bird caught in a tornado. The blood cascading down her forehead like a waterfall of emotion.
Her delicate face was transformed into a mask – a crimson mask of blood and agony. The smell of burnt rubber and panic in the air. It was electric. Why did she have...
In 1921, he flew from the Great Rift Valley. No one believed him, of course. They knew a man could not simply spread his wings and fly. Because a man had no wings, and that was really the point of it. But he insisted he had done it. “Just because no one saw me,” he said, stretching his arms up to the sky, “Does not mean it didn’t happen.”
No one was convinced.
“I flew,” he continued, “From one side of the rift to the other. Over the canyon. I soared above the ground and floated in the sky.” He...
Twist. Twist. Twist. The doorknob wouldn't turn. The door wouldn't open. And then Liz would find out why Sebastian was keeping her in his bathroom. It was a nice bathroom, the blue tiles matched the fluffy towels and everything was clean. Still locking someone in the bathroom wasn't proper etiquette. Proper etiquette was texting someone or calling them, and asking if they wanted to discuss their differences over coffee. Being polite wasn't tossing someone over their shoulder and locking them in their bathroom with an ominous "I'll be back."
Aargh. She was going to kill Sebastian for locking her in...
Their trip to the zoo had been postponed due to the rain. She was gutted as it was something she had looked forward to since their arrival roughly five months ago. And it had promised to be such a fine day upon waking: sun without clouds; an average or around 17 degrees, exceptional for winter. Like with so much about the country (and there was rather a lot): it was one long line of broken promises. However, she had learnt early on not to give much credence to the weather forecasts and to trust her own judgement and the colour...
Until now, she'd never thought of herself as pretty. After all, her parents had named her Agnes. Agnes. That was the name of some fat, frumpy girl. But she stood here at the mirror, the bell had long since rung and students had settled themselves in desks. The comb in her bag would have to do. Maybe something from the haze of hairspray left behind by the other girls would help set the ridiculously high bangs she had crafted for herself.
She threw the comb in her bag and headed out into the hall. It was empty as expected. Agnes...