The passing away of my dad.
When he died,
I became him.
How does it work?
More stories from Test and writers in Poets and other communities.
It's 3am. I’m in a town that could be a witness protection location—quiet, grey, suspiciously devoid of decent coffee or emotional support.
By Test11 months ago in Poets
My feet sink into the wet sand as the tide flushes by, covering everything in disappearing crystals of warm ocean. I’m running, I think, and the spray clings to my ankles, obscuring my legs from the lens.
By Maura Bernstein6 days ago in Poets
When a wave returns to its vast source, one might mourn it, or marvel that something so brief could carry so much of forever on its back.
By Tim Carmichael3 days ago in Poets
Silhouettes of the female form were given flesh and bone. Silken skin glistened under the spotlight. Dry ice rose around our Icons as they danced atop their podiums in the Square. Heralded for their beauty, their movements were slight, powerful, and sensual.
By Paul Stewart5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (3)