Classical
A Girl Named Lenore
January 1st, 2021 I must be crazy! So many things have happened this week. My grandfather's memorial service was Monday. It was hard; really hard. I loved that man more than life itself, but at least he isn't suffering anymore. I remember seeing him the night when he died, the whole family was there in his house. I say "whole family" like there is more than 10 of us, but hey, it was nice that everyone could see him one last time. Everyone else had gone to bed, but I stayed up. We were talking, his voice was soft and weak almost like it wasn't there. I felt a part of me snap when he finally passed. Sort of like a part of me died too. I miss him. I miss him so badly. He left me his Banshee though, so it's like he's still here! She's a beautiful owl. He called her a barn owl, but I don't really know enough about them to know the differences between them. Except for snow owls. I only know about them because of those Harry Potter movies. She was heartbroken too she cried the whole time Grandpa was passing from this world to the next. Almost like she was calling his name over and over again. That's the way of life though. "It's appointed once unto man to die" or whatever they say.
By Caleb Myers4 years ago in Fiction
Within the Dominion of Dreams
Everything is at peace. Only the babbling of the brooks we encounter and the faint chirping of birds is heard. A passing hum of the wind through the trees as it swept between their boughs, heavily laden with fruits and leaves; the grass whispering and waving. I feel its blades brush at my knees as I walk upon an earth unlike the one I’ve known, a world about me that is at peace. The sky, an iridescent blue, appears as an overarching crystal. The clouds are feathery, drifting carelessly, amidst a dream of their own. And while no fellow companion is to be found, I am not alone. As I cross the field, their presence remains with me. A presence of a spirit - a timeless creature. They bear no distinguishing features, and are shrouded with a heavy cloak. It floats about them as if spirit and shroud are one. At times I see them; at times I do not. We speak to each other as if we have known each other for a long time.
By Karis Wnuk4 years ago in Fiction
The Man in the Dolia
It was all bones. He was all bones. Bones and dust and remnants of a civilization long past. Yet even after all those years, the man in the dolia still lived. In part. In spirit. He lived and wandered as an echo of tragedy. Not of war or deceit, but disaster by fire, water, and time. He hadn’t died the day when the mountain came crashing down. That was a different matter entirely.
By M.E. Royce4 years ago in Fiction
Vision
Some other time the vision would return. Not this moment of course. That would just be silly. The clouds were forming on this indecent exposure. That was starting to develop. This time he was sure to catch it as it developed. Not at a passing fix. Shifting up and around the past. Aggravating the stitches in the remix. Running through the track of his mind he had to think of another way to voice his opinions. Buzzing forever and whatnot.
By Alex Jennett4 years ago in Fiction
The Good Husband
Ten years, four months…ten years, four months. “Ten years, four months!” He grunted as he winced from the pain of his teeth grinding against his jaw. The dirty stained yellow cup with the white and blue pills stared emptily at him and he smiled wanly then grimaced. He wasn’t going to take them today! He shuddered as he remembered his nightmare from the night before of the zombies and monsters that clawed him as he slept. Or maybe he had imagined it all? He shook his head sadly as he wondered when he would be able to separate reality from the thoughts that brewed in his head. He chuckled quietly for he knew that he could no more discern and dissect the thoughts than he could swallow these here pills without gagging. He still gagged even after swallowing them for ten years.
By Elizabeth Cordes4 years ago in Fiction
First World Problems
The American passenger said angrily into his phone, ‘Within the blasted marmalade!’ Fahad glanced in the mirror, appraising the man for a sense of the words. What was he speaking of with such emotion? Why would an orange jam deserve such anger? The passenger was well-dressed for the heat, a businessman clearly, though his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and the tie dangled drunkenly. Dark hair, closely cut, a Movado at his wrist, wedding ring.
By Bernard Bleske4 years ago in Fiction
Path of Least Resistance. V+ Fiction Award Winner.
In the morning, I took the little stone with me into the living room, where Keith was on the sofa, watching television. At the time, Keith and I lived in a downtown two bedroom, under the constant press of traffic, working factory and service jobs to pay the rent and buy the beer and all that lazy nothingness. A couple of college dropouts waiting for something to happen to us.
By Bernard Bleske4 years ago in Fiction
