Whitney Sweet
Bio
Published novelist, poet, writer, artist. Always making things.
www.whitneysweetwrites.com
Instagram @whitneysweet_writes
Twitter @whitneysweet_writes_creates
Novel: Inn Love - a sweet ❤️
Poetry: The Weight of Nectar; Warrior Woman Wildflower
Stories (24)
Filter by community
The Golden Pear
The Golden Pear The path to the cave started at the edge of a field. She had been journeying along it for several weeks now, sticking to the softly tilled furrows, doing her best to avoid the tender plants. At first, there was a black expanse of damp earth stretching out before her. The farmer having refreshed the soil in early spring with a slice and roll of the blades he drew behind his tractor; Laurel’s booted feet sunk nicely into the soil.
By Whitney Sweet4 years ago in Fiction
The Grand Hedonist
“Can you believe we are finally doing this?” Marnie asked loudly to the others who sat in a semi circle in the back of a long white limousine. “I feel so fancy!” She took a long drink from her champagne glass, draining it. “Top ‘er up.” With a wavy hand, Marnie held out the glass toward Lucy, who obliged. Marnie took another drink, then, with her free hand, dug into her purse. When she found what she wanted, her hand re-emerged with a brochure clasped in her fingers. She passed her glass to Nina, cleared her throat, then read aloud.
By Whitney Sweet4 years ago in Filthy
Tilt Kettle
Tilt Kettle Chef Smith Henry woke to the sound of his wristwatch alarm. The time read 2:52am. Perfect. He dressed quickly pulling his chef whites over his long limbs, covering his shaggy dark hair in his tall white paper hat and then left his hotel room to walk down the hall to the kitchen. He could smell the beef stock before he stepped on to the tiled floor. He turned on the lights, unlocked the office door, loaded three pens and two soup spoons into the pocket on his upper left arm, closed the door, grabbed the cart full of plastic pails he’d left by the door on his way out last night, then rolled to the tilt kettle.
By Whitney Sweet5 years ago in Confessions
Von Bricklebrow House
Von Bricklebrow House The dog stopped running when he got to the fountain in the middle of the park. By stopped running, it didn’t mean he stopped moving. Now, he was swimming in the fountain, his big, hairy, black, furry body leaving a muddy trail in the water.
By Whitney Sweet5 years ago in Petlife
And Then There Was the Flood
My mom got sick. And then, there was the flood... Mom started showing signs that something was wrong, just before Christmas. Her body was rounding in the middle, she was tired, easily out of breath, and not very hungry. We weren’t sure what to do with the Christmas ham we cooked. It ended up in the freezer, made into many soup related dishes as months drew on.
By Whitney Sweet5 years ago in Families
