I sidled closer to the battle trophy, my palm itching to finally hold the rune-etched hilt.
The dead warrior’s blade had been there as long as I could remember—stabbed into the center of the cave’s floor. Every day I’d gaze at it, and the warrior’s name would dance in my thoughts to a tune only I seemed to hear.
August 2, 1866
Pendleton, South Carolina, C.S.A.
Dearest Veronica,
I long for the day when this conflict will be ended, and I may once again enjoy your lovely company. But until that glorious day, I am training new recruits to join General Jackson’s airship armada as he strives against our misled brothers in the north.
They hope to silence me forever. They think, because I’m behind bars, I am no longer a threat. But I have hacked my e-reader to transmit outside their network, and I am using my remaining words to share my story. If you are reading this, please pay close attention.
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The world jerks violently, snapping me out of my trance. At first, I’m too stunned to think.
The place I’ve woken in is dark. Enclosed. Unfamiliar.
Panic shoots through me, and I reach toward the walls shutting me in so tight I can barely move. The familiar fabric of my red sequined dress, tough and frilly, presses against my legs. But it’s a small relief.
When Detective Billings takes Phenny and Ling into the cabin at gunpoint, they have a surprising reaction to the scene.
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March Madness has nothing on Havok! 21 stories. 5 genres. Hundreds of members. Thousands of views. Our editors have picked their favorite March stories. That means the stories below are in contention for our first anthology! (You’ll have to wait until July to find out which ones make the final cut, though!) If you don’t
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Borgig strolled along the empty beach, his shaggy curls shading him from the sun, when a bomb exploded under his feet.
Under one of his feet, to be exact.
“Aaaagggh!”
Sand sprayed as he hopped backwards. Although the bomb couldn’t have been larger than a peanut, pain shot through his foot as if it had caught fire. He would have blisters by morning, no doubt.
Though I was eager to rush into a burning building once, now I sit on the sidelines, watching friends risk their lives to quench the flames, knowing they will hate me if they discover the real reason I’m in this wheelchair.
Bill stumbles out of the building with a pale-faced boy in his arms.
The doorbell woke Margaret from her nap. She grabbed her cane and tapped to the front door. Gravel crunched as the grocery delivery truck reversed down the drive. She waited until she was sure he was gone. He was a nice man, but he talked too much.
She opened the door and struck the box with her cane.
D’Alene slipped into the still, dark water, quivering. She hoped her trembling wouldn’t betray her hiding place as she sent ripples out like a beacon. Her eyes darted toward every sound as she fought to keep her breathing under control.
In the distance, her pursuer swept his pulse gun everywhere his gaze landed.
“You wanted to see me?” I tried not to fidget, but anxiety hit every time I got called into the restaurant’s office.
“Where’s the silverware?” Mr. Jones glared at me, his already small eyes squinted.
“What silverware?” I smoothed the front of my uniform, an ankle-length black dress with a lace-edged white apron.
There’s a big misunderstanding at the cabin in the woods–or is it, “the crime scene”?
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