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What's your superpower? Everyone has one right? That's why the world is falling apart.


After a cure for a terrible disease goes awry, everyone in the world gains superpowers. Everyone, that is, except Thomas. He's the old kind of normal. A Nomad, and Nomads are dangerous. They're hunted and killed for sport on the world's biggest game show before they go insane - all while they're eight years old.


But you don't need to be able to fly to be a HERO.

Hollow: Work

"You have a very unique and unusual writing style that instantly captivates the reader and draws them into this fascinating fantasy world that you created. Looking forward to following Thomas on his adventure to become a hero :D"


"Now that is a fantastic descriptive opening paragraph <3"

"I love the story so far. Your writing is excellent, especially your descriptiveness & I love the fact that I’m already painting an image of each character & their surrounds in my mind as I read!"

"This would make an awesome movie!"

Hollow: Text


"Stop wastin' my time," he said.

His words snapped at the boy like angry dogs, chained to a fence but straining for purchase at the throat of their intended victim. His eyes watched him, their curious stare not sharing the bite of the voice. The dark pupils had a thin rim of angry red, adrift on an anaemic sea of not quite white.

Whatever the light shining in them, they never changed. The pupils didn't dilate at night or contract to pin pricks when the sun hit its high point. They were fixed spheres that offered and took nothing. They simply watched and waited.

Hollow: Text

Thomas could empathise. Even though he knew exactly the sort of person his grandfather was, the world he lived in had none of the problems Thomas's did. There was crime and poverty and the like, but at least there was no risk of being killed by someone's laser eye blasts.

"What's your name," he asked again.

"Bren," she answered. "It's Brenda, but don't ever call me that."

Thomas quite like the name, but could understand. He hated being called Tom.

"OK, Bren," he said.

Then she asked the question he really wished she wouldn't.

"So, what's your power?"

Hollow: Text
Hollow: Text

"Tommy! Tommy! Tommy!"

He heard the chanting from speakers inset into the outer wall. It was almost drowned out by the fanfare and struggled to squeeze in to cacophony. Thomas heard it. The repeated calling of his name, sounding like an arena full of people calling for him. In some places, that's exactly what there was. Cinemas and auditoriums would show The Spot, giving fans the opportunity to see a child being murdered on the big screen. Something about the chant sounded fake, however, as if it were the same person saying his name, overlayed time and time again to create the illusion of multiple voices.

None of them were his mother, so he hated the sound. He might have hesitated to exit the room before, but the chanting gave him the incentive he needed. He had to get out of there, just to get away from it.

He went through the door, which closed silently behind him. The chanting and fanfare stopped, leaving a vacuum that no sound or breath seemed eager to fill. He felt as if he were standing on a precipice, with an abyss dropping away from him. It was an inviting void, one he could easily fall into.

But no. He had a show to give. A death to make matter.

The silence was shattered by the sharp blare of feedback from a speaker switched back on. The celebratory music played in the background, but was muted to allow a voice to be heard without shouting.

"Laddie, we'll give you your two hours, but not a second more. If I were you, I'd start running."

"And what if I decide to just stand here?" he shouted, not knowing if David, for the voice was clearly his, could hear him.

"If that's what you want to do, then go for it, laddie. We'll still wait two hours, except for you it'll seem like ten. Then we'll come get you, you'll die and we get to go home early. You'll leave some very disappointed viewers, but I get paid either way."

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