Excerpt
submerged in honey
This is an excerpt from my novel, Moonchildren. Click here to read more. _____________________________ It wasn’t always like this, but trauma changes people. The responsibility of a middle child is to mediate and obey, and at some point, this becomes second nature. The oldest does everything first: learns to read, rides a bike, graduates - so that, by the time the second child completes these same things, no one is excited anymore. For four years after her birth, Anika was the youngest.
By Antiquity Anecdotes2 years ago in Fiction
Whispers in the Doll House: Part II
This is the second half of my prologue to a book I'm working on. You can find the Part I here. Rebecca tugged the collar of her white blouse, adjusting the crisp lines with nervous fingers. The opulent bathroom of the modern villa stretched before her, chrome fixtures gleaming under the recessed lighting. In the gilded mirror above the marble countertop, her reflection looked back, her pale skin and worried eyes betraying her outward composure.
By Nicole Gibson2 years ago in Fiction
Shadows of Oblivion
In the cobblestone streets of Eldoria, a city immersed in the embrace of oblivion, lay an ancient secret that the veil of time tried to bury. The city, covered by the patina of mystery, hid among its ruins a narrative intertwined in the folds of history.
By Hendrik SancheZ2 years ago in Fiction
Classification
In the eerie town of Hollowhaven, nestled between ancient forests and mist-covered mountains, a mysterious classification known only as "The Veiled Enigma" unfolds. As darkness descends upon the unsuspecting town, peculiar occurrences manifest – cryptic symbols etched into the bark of ancient trees, spectral whispers echoing through abandoned alleyways, and a foreboding mist that blankets the streets.
By J.Balakrishnan2 years ago in Fiction
Time
In the quaint town of Serenview, where the rhythm of life flowed steadily, lived a young woman named Emily. Unlike the hurried pace of neighboring cities, Serenview cherished the art of mindful living, where time management was not just a skill but a way of life.
By J.Balakrishnan2 years ago in Fiction
Decrescendo . Top Story - February 2024.
I'm wearing the hand-me-down leggings of a girl who got cancer and lived. Fraying and soaked at the kneecaps. I crouch by snow-sunken tires - pawing our car deeper into the hillside with ungloved hands. Futile, numb effort.
By Erin Latham Shea2 years ago in Fiction
One Writer
One Writer A writer sits in front of an antique typewriter, ready to pour his thoughts onto paper: "Writing was my lifeline, the very thing that saved me from the depths of despair. Yet, I didn't write about trivial matters or indulge in the ridiculousness of love letters penned for unrequited affections. Words became my refuge, a sanctuary from the pain and anguish that plagued my existence. As a shy teenager with seemingly no prospects in life, I became a dreamer. A dreamer who would weep and beseech the moon to deliver the essence of my words, so I could tend to them with greater care. These words I wrote became my only flame, providing warmth in the face of the world's coldness. They acted as a protective shield against the venomous words of the women on the bus, who sought to pry into my life and label me as insignificant. Their hurtful remarks echoed sentiments that had only been expressed by one person before. And so, I transformed these women into the greatest villains within my poems and short stories, finding joy in their demise and giving my life a satisfying conclusion. In reality, I severed ties with my predetermined destiny, leaving those women on the bus to spew venom amongst themselves while I forged my own path. All of this and more, being a dreamer and a writer, was akin to granting wings to a condor, allowing it to soar far above the vultures. I discovered that I held control over my own destiny if I fought tirelessly, never relinquishing my beliefs. Compiling all my words and crafting a book in 2019 also played a crucial role in my salvation. The dream I aspired to was grander than ever, and the pursuit of that dream continues to this day. The struggle is ongoing, a constant reminder of my unwavering commitment to what I have written and the incomplete work that lies before me. I realized that if I am willing to fight until the end, without surrendering my beliefs, I hold the power to shape my own destiny. Piecing together the words and birthing a book in 2019 was a salvation in itself. The dream, however, reaches far beyond that milestone. The fight for my dream is far from over, and I embrace the perpetual struggle as a testament of my love for what I have written and the work that remains unfinished. If you have experienced the same, then you know that words hold the power to heal. They possess the cure within their very essence. So, cry, smile, and fight. Be the architect of your own world, one that brings harmony to our own. Write the words that can save you from a fate you do not desire. Sketch the destination you wish to reach. Have you felt the same? If so, then embrace the power of words as your remedy. The cure lies within the act of writing." As the typewriter emits its final sound, the writer removes the sheet, crumples it, and tosses it into the trash can. Frustration seeps in. "This is what the world does to all writers," the writer laments. "Come to me now with your hollow flattery, and I will discard it just as I did this crumpled page. How cruel you are." The writer closes the typewriter, placing it within a box of memories, and steps out onto the balcony to savor the last sips of his mint tea, seeking solace in the tranquility of the moment.
By Antonio Madrugada2 years ago in Fiction
