Writing For Me
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Stories (16)
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María
Through the window of her house, a warm light entered, caressing her cheek. With the melody of dawn as a soundtrack, the young girl timidly opened her eyelids, as if fearful of leaving the realm of dreams. Bathed in light, her green eyes glistened, moist after a long night of vivid imagination.
By Writing For Me9 months ago in Fiction
Man Up
What is the purpose of life? We look for partners to share it with, and we desperately pursue empty dreams of hollow chalk. We devote ourselves to blind faiths and call them ‘salvation’ but pay no rendition to our acts. Shame is what we feel when we know we are wrong. When you are sure that whatever unfolded, did so because of you, for good or for bad.
By Writing For Me2 years ago in Confessions
Time
Time is a delusion. A mirage in a sea of nothing, where lives spark brilliantly and fade silently like stars from unexisting galaxies. It’s the feather that falls from the Dove, drifting through the air while the wind holds its hand, guiding it to where it’s destined to go.
By Writing For Me2 years ago in Poets
The Window on 24th Street
I moved into my apartment on the 24th day of June, on a Thursday. Job hunting had not been going well, but I had managed to find a job as a legal clerk nearby, so I rented a small studio apartment on 24th Street. It was very minimalist, but it was enough for me. In the living room, there was a large window that gave view to the street and the buildings directly in front. I loved sitting by that window while I drank my coffee in the mornings. I had been there around a month when I noticed that, every night, one of the apartment lights on the building across the street was always on. The window peered into a living room with a green sofa and a large painting above it. A nice couple lived there, I had met them on my second week there as I headed to work. Some nights, I would read, sitting on a chair that I conveniently propped next to the window. It was on one of those nights when it all started.
By Writing For Me2 years ago in Fiction
Henry and Kikkert
“All hands on deck, gentlemen! We got pirates!” Captain Peck yelled as the sound of cannon fire filled the sea. “Aye Captain!” The men yelled, sprinting to the cannons. Some ran below deck to fetch gunpowder and ammo, and some climbed up ratlines with muskets on their backs. The sound of the wood cracking and the crashing of the waves almost drowned the sailor chants that rose from the Duke Elyse. Amidst all this, Henry, a young 14 year old boy, was running all over the ship making sure that the cannons were never empty.
By Writing For Me4 years ago in Fiction
What Autumn Took Away
It was a cold day, and fall was starting to tint the leaves brown, painting a warm picture, as chimneys vented black smoke and the sewers drew white lines in the cold, autumn days. James was preparing to close off his coffee shop, when he was approached by two men. They were dressed in charcoal suits, with long coats and fedoras that hid any facial feature above the lips. One of them looked old, about 40 or 45. The other one however, looked much younger. 'A novice?' thought James. He knew why they were here, there was no point in resisting.
By Writing For Me4 years ago in Fiction
Furuta Junko: The Concrete Girl.
Background: On november 25th 1988, Furuta Junko, a 16 year old student at Misato, in the Saitama prefecture, was kidnapped by four boys and subjected to 44 days of torture and inimmaginable agony. A story which, to this day, still holds its weight in Japanese culture.
By Writing For Me4 years ago in Criminal
Broken
Garoe’s eye peeked through the small crack from the open wardrobe door as his father’s fist pummeled her mother’s mouth, caving in two of her teeth. Garoe remained still, unfazed, as his father’s closed fist hit her mother’s nonreactive body again and again. He wanted to scream. He wanted to stop that man from beating his mother, but he wasn’t able to, he could only witness how his mother got hit by that pig even being inches away from death.
By Writing For Me4 years ago in Fiction
Velvet Rouge
She began to slowly open her eyes as she woke up by the sound of dripping water. The air was heavy and fetid, carrying with it the smell of damp wood, along with rot and humidity. After a few seconds, she became fully awake, being able to then grasp reality again.
By Writing For Me4 years ago in Fiction
