Excerpt
Squid Game
It's the TV sensation of the season. At least, that's how Netflix has positioned Squid Game, the dystopian thriller from screenwriter and director Hwang Dong-hyuk that has become the most-watched Netflix original series of all time. The streaming giant only shares your data voluntarily and, in any case, has the power to put any series it wants on the landing pages of its millions of subscribers; If a normal television network had that kind of power, we would have had many more seasons of Cop Rock. But, not surprisingly, the first episode of The Squid Game is about blind trust (although this kind of trust does no one any good). Are you rewarding our confidence with a series worth watching?
By Sherlyn Harris4 years ago in Fiction
Blue Skies. Black Death
Prologue Present The perfect backdrop. A glorious evening with the setting sun and the rising moon vying for position in the sky, twilight just breaking. That hazy time between day and night. The skies coming alive with vibrant pinks and reds, seamlessly melding into gentle hues of blue. Snow-capped peaks of the White Mountains were just barely visible on the distant horizon. Trees alive with the effervescent colors of autumn. Nature’s work of art on an ever-changing canvas.
By Ana Steele4 years ago in Fiction
Claire
PROLOGUE A golden ray illuminates my cell, the only light in my otherwise dark world. Its stone walls are just as gloomy as always. My bed, a mat on the floor and a tiny blanket. Its spring now, so at least the cold nights are over. The rags that hang from my body do little to bring me comfort. A long robe, its faded grey color matches my surroundings. I hear the lock unlatch and a guard motions me out. He is dressed in a navy-blue uniform. His tanned skin a stark contrast to mine, pale from lack of sunshine. The dark grey halls seem like an endless maze, torches light the way. He leads me and the others that fill the cells beside me to a large hall. This is where we get our food if you can call it that. Potato soup and a slice of bread is all they ever serve. Too afraid we may revolt; they keep us weak and frail. My body appears as it is wasting away. The only curves are those from my bones sticking out beneath my skin. My cheeks are sunken in, a skeleton of my once full features. I grab my bowl silently and walk to one of the tables. We are not permitted to talk to one another, so the vast hall is silent. Guards stand at the entrance and exits. Their hateful glares burn through me. I have spent what feels like my whole life here. Never permitted to leave. When I was still just a baby, my mother, among others from the lower class revolted against those in power. They wished to overthrow the rich and the hagiarchy they have created. However, they lost and only served to increase our suffering.
By Dianna Hoiland4 years ago in Fiction
Modern Vampyr
Wintry anorexia of decrepit bone trees, grey overcast sky, sheer emptiness in the howling wind. Deathly mounds of white en masse, roads slick with black ice. Sleet gunking up streets and spilling from snowbanks, pooling atop manhole lids, rushing sidewalk gutters. Whiteout blizzard.
By James B. William R. Lawrence4 years ago in Fiction
