You are browsing the archive for Original.

Profile photo of NoPoet

by NoPoet

[ORIGINAL] Ashild (part 1)

05/10/2013 in Original

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

An original fantasy epic by Trondheim

This story originally appeared on and is posted here with the author’s consent. This is an epic work which will be posted onto Imp Lit in several parts.

To the far north there lays a land so inhospitable, and wracked by cold weather and the lack of any friendly place to rest, in these rugged foothills and vast rolling tundra plains those who are shunned by the world or driven here by either fear or a need to vanish come. Some find shelter in the few lonely fortified towns that hug the valley floors. Or some live alone, forever wandering those cold marches in search of solitude or perhaps some company to ward of evil dreams.
Known o traveler. In these lands there is but one law, and that is the law layed down by the biting cold north wind and the harsh land itself. Only the strong or lucky can hope to eke out a living here.
So let us begin our story, and let us discover who or what will unfold in it.

Read the rest of this entry →

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes
Profile photo of NoPoet

by NoPoet

Slowly Dying

02/02/2012 in Original

4.00 avg. rating (85% score) - 1 vote

A poem by Janshi

Author’s Comments:

Yes, gasp, Janshi has actually done a poem. The horror.

anyway, this poem was set in mind of a dying person, either literally or figuratively. I had an idea of adding a few lines that would give implication that the dying person had cancer but was not sure if I should actually put in the lines.

C & C would be gladly appreciated, need to know what to work on.

SLOWLY DYING by Lawrence Wang a.k.a. Janshi

Another year goes by
Another year gone
Another year added to your life
Another year taken from mine

By day, by week, by month, by year, I die
Slowly lingering
Always wandering
As Time marches by

Spring, summer, autumn, winter
The sapling blooms
The leaf fades
The tree dies

Everyday is a year
Every feeling a blessing
Every breath closer to oblivion
Everyday bittersweet

Listless, vagrant
Without purpose
Decaying, fading
Going, going

Soon the day is lost, the sunshine fast fading
Its last rays breaking o’er the horizon
Darkness looms, encroaching, invading
Poisoning the fair land

Soon the sun will fall
Taken from heaven’s grace
Leaving me alone
In Darkness’s embrace

A bonus poem by Janshi

Tick-tock goes the grandfather clock
Ancient gears in motion
Tick-tock, tick-tock, goes the clockwork
Like a locomotion

Never failing, never ending
Marching on and onwards
Tick-tock goes the grandfather clock
Singing the chimes of birds

4.00 avg. rating (85% score) - 1 vote
Profile photo of Thumper

by Thumper

His Task Completed

16/05/2011 in Original

3.00 avg. rating (75% score) - 1 vote

Last night I had a dream so vivid I felt the need to put it down in writing.

The dream was short and there were no words spoken or events that took place. The visual and emotional atmosphere of the dream was what truly made it remarkable. I saw a man, incredibly ancient and broken from years of hard labor, standing beside a freshly dug grave holding an old battered shovel. To the left and right of this grave were other graves, all occupied, and freshly filled. All around were graves and the further from the old man you looked, the older and more overgrown the graves became, stretching on past the horizon.

Since it was a dream, there were details that were understood without being expressed in words or imagery. It was understood that the man had single-handedly dug and filled every grave in the cemetery. It had been his task of decades. Every person the man had ever known was buried in that cemetery. Some cataclysm years ago had taken them all away in one fell swoop. He was all that was left, and he had spent every day since then laying those he had survived to rest.

The feeling of sadness and loss was palpable. The sun was sinking below the horizon in the distance. The man stood and watched as it disappeared below the horizon. He shed no tears because he had long since shed all the tears he had to shed.

The open grave was his last. He had finally finished his task. The last grave was his. As darkness set in he closed his eyes and lowered himself into his grave and then everything was dark. There was no moon or stars in the sky; only blackness. But in the final moments before I awoke, I could have sworn I heard the mournful sound of a woman singing, calling her beloved to join her from beyond the grave.

3.00 avg. rating (75% score) - 1 vote

Creative Process

27/04/2011 in Original

5.00 avg. rating (97% score) - 2 votes

When Angela Thatcher’s third novel sold its millionth copy, Jay Leno asked her how she wrote her books. Though the details escaped her afterwards she remembered the answer being something about hearing the divine voice of the muse, then, hammering that out into a novel in a quasi-orgasmic display of her superior talent. Whatever the line, she remembered she got a laugh.

Of course she was talking completely out of her ass.

Read the rest of this entry →

5.00 avg. rating (97% score) - 2 votes

[Shattered Skies Project] No Captain Can Do Wrong…

20/04/2011 in Original

3.67 avg. rating (77% score) - 3 votes

Republican Warship Cavanta Bay
Type 3600 Frigate
Complement 358 officers and ratings

Four junior ratings almost flung themselves to either side of the dark, metallic passageway, still taking the time to stand to attention as Commander Marcus van der Mar paced urgently towards the Ops Room. The On Watch Principle Warfare Officer had ordered the ship to Action Stations – as Commanding Officer of the Cavanta Bay, van der Mar knew of no scheduled exercise or drills, which meant that Lieutenant Commander Ulrich and his team had found something potentially dangerous.
The Ops Room was a flurry of activity as van der Mar entered, ducking his head underneath the narrow opening of the airlock. The green lights of a dozen consoles flickered with inputs, causing shadows to dance along the dull metal walls behind their users. Ulrich sat at the On Watch PWO console, his fingers dancing across his input board as he scanned through a dozen different surveillance input modes on his main display monitor. Along the bulkhead to his left sat four compilators; ratings trained to collate, filter and interpret the various raw data feeds from the ship’s myriad of surveillance and detection devices. To the right were stationed the weapons control terminals; half a dozen stations from which the ship’s offensive capability could be managed.
“Sir,” Ulrich nodded, standing up as van der Mar walked over to him, “we’ve got two contacts on the sub-space scope, the other side of Beahdorah Prime.”
“Alliance subs?” van der Mar asked, swinging down into the CO’s command chair.
The Alliance, one of four human factions to have originated on earth, were particularly adept at using sub-space attack vessels for hit and run raids.
“Too big,” Ulrich replied, “far too big. We’re monitoring, but we’ve only got a forty per cent resolution at this range. The crafts’ dimensions don’t match anything on record. It’s definitely something new.”
“What sort of dimensions are we talking about?” van der Mar asked, sliding his own input board across his lap as a further six sailors arrived at the Ops Room main airlock to bolster the Duty Watch compliment.
“About twice the size of a dreadnaught, sir,” Ulrich replied hesitantly.
Van der Mar let out a breath. Twice the size of a Republican dreadnaught? Van der Mar had joined the Republican Navy straight from school at the tender age of eighteen, and in his sixteen years of service he had never encountered anything close to that size. Whatever was arriving through sub space on the other side of the planet the Cavanta Bay was orbiting was nearly two miles long. The two new arrivals were the largest ships ever detected. Van der Mar swore under his breath. Read the rest of this entry →

3.67 avg. rating (77% score) - 3 votes
Profile photo of LIRR



06/04/2011 in Original

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes




The one thing that truly never lets us down.


As rain pour down with the full fury of the heavens, skies hidden behind dark and angry clouds, I stand here on the pavement. The lightpost next to me sends a beam of pure illumination down over me, wraps me in sparkles as rain drops cut through the beam. My clothes are soaked, all the way through to my skin. My body shivers from the cold and I freeze at my very core, marrow frozen, heart covered with frost. Hair tangled and stuck to my face, drops of rain crawling down my cheeks, dripping from my jaw and chin.

Read the rest of this entry →

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

All of Washinton’s Children

16/03/2011 in Original

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

“We knew it would all break down, in the end. It was inevitable. But American pride was always such a curious thing. We were too big to fail. Too awesome in our power. Nobody else could even touch us, right?”

I laughed inwardly as I spoke to the others, my own words humorous to my ears. I don’t truly know what I was thinking, telling them the real story. I was breaking their perceptions, I suppose. Giving them a little taste of the truth. I continued my anecdote.

Wrong. How wrong we were. America was no more invincible than a butterfly in a hurricane. We were blind to the dangers all around us, unafraid in our ignorance. All of the West was.

“In the end, it was our arrogance, our pride, that brought about our downfall. Too big to fail, right? Right?”

Read the rest of this entry →

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

Shattered Skies – Concept

20/02/2011 in Original

3.00 avg. rating (75% score) - 1 vote

[Have you read about the Shattered Skies Project, Imperial Literature’s mission to self-publish a real paper sci-fi story collection?]

I sprint for the far side of the square, ducking behind the shattered remains of a vehicle. The sounds of pursuit are growing ever closer.

Not long now.

Of course, the final outcome is not in doubt. My mask cracked in the first moments of the assault, an unlucky ricochet. Since then I’ve been breathing a thin mix of scrubbed air and the soup of radioisotopes that comprises what’s left of the natural atmosphere in this part of the world. With the best medical care, I might survive a week – not that I’m going to have the chance.

I snap my rifle up, blinking to clear the sweat from my eyes. Across the square, something tall and unmistakably alien glitters softly. Three shots, the rifle banging painfully into my shoulder, draw a long squeal of agony. As soon as it falls, though, two more appear from the alleyway beyond. Damn it all to hell!

Something buzzes past my left shoulder and buries itself in the wall with a dull whump. Muscles shrieking, I throw myself aside and a heartbeat later the air is split by silent purple light. Chunks of masonry flail me.

Time to go. Firing blindly over the car, I lunge for the smooth-edged hole that has been carved in the building behind. Projectiles whine through the air, but high, and the cool shadows fold around me.

The clock in my mask marks 03:45 – less than half an hour since first contact. The noise of background fire is intermittent now, and fear rises like gorge in my throat. So quick. So complete our fall.

They came in-system on just three ships, so fast that the early warning sentinels barely had time to signal before they were blown out of space. Our fleet elements were way out of position, but apparently one heavy picket made contact at extreme range, half her crew crushed to death by the brutal g she was pulling. Chance in a million railgun strike must have compromised the re-entry integrity of one of the alien ships, because it broke off the descent. The rest of the picket’s crew joined their comrades a heartbeat later.

Once in atmosphere, our orbital defences couldn’t target them. Conventional weapons were too light to wound the hull of a deep space warship; hence the nukes – right over our own centre of population, a last act of mad desperation.

I don’t think they expected that. Only one of their ships emerged from the nuclear furnace, but it was one too many – and large enough to carry an entire army. Which, as it turns out, I think it must have.

We had seven hours between the perimeter sentinel signal and landfall. Mobilisation takes days, but the closest men to city armoury were kitted out on the double and sent to join the standing garrison in the defence of key points. I was still in the armoury when our nukes went off, so I was one of the lucky ones – at least I had a mask to start with.

The main door of this building leads back to the square, so I hit the stairs two at a time,  legs screaming. I can’t remember how many rounds are left in the mag, damn it, but there’s no time to check. Another flight and I should be hitting the roof.

The hatch is locked but snaps open under a determined assault from my boot. Noises on the stairs below lend my actions frantic urgency, nameless alien fear rising like gorge in my throat.

The city, or what’s left of it, is a stunning sight. To the east and west fires rage in the pale dawn light, punctuated by gouts of harsh light where some kind of conflict is still being played out. To the north there’s little left – the dark bulk of the alien ship rises like a mountain over the remains of the assembly building, strange shapes flickering at the base of the slender ramps leading to its hidden interior.

To the south the city is relatively untouched – so far. Hopefully the secondary armouries are still active, and reinforcements will be gathered before our communications infrastructure is compromised. I run to one side, then the other, and stop.

There is no way off the roof – not even for a desperate leap of faith.

No escape.

After a moment’s hesitation I pull off the cracked mask and toss it aside. The air is strangely sharp and I can taste the tang of blood with every rasping breath.

I shoulder the rifle and take aim at the hatch. Only five rounds left, but it doesn’t matter.

It’s my last mag.

3.00 avg. rating (75% score) - 1 vote


18/02/2011 in Original

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

My name is Jonathan Heckart. They call me Reaper. I am number one.

I have always ordered my steaks cooked a nice medium-rare. I’ve done it that way since the day I was old enough to eat red meat. That’s the way my father ate his steaks. And it’s the way my father’s father ate his steaks. All down through history, Heckart men have ordered their steaks medium-rare. Read the rest of this entry →

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes
Profile photo of Dae

by Dae

The Choices We Made

19/09/2010 in Original

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

It started with five words. Not entirely innocent words, but only five – though I remember that the other affair, the one that shook our lives to the core, had also been started by only five words. Maybe that’s why I said yes so quickly, because it felt in a way as if I was brought back to happier times, before there only remained two out of the three of us.

“Let’s have dinner together tonight.”

Funny, how five words can lead to much bigger things. Read the rest of this entry →

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes
Skip to toolbar