Excerpt
Dear Mutti
Saturday, October 9, 1937 Dear Mama, I’ve started working. I was able to start working within the first few days after Eitan was fired. It’s hard being a working woman. I’m always so tired, but obviously that’s just par for course these days. Eitan has been staying home with Ruth while I work, so I’m glad we didn’t have to get someone else to watch her. We wouldn’t be able to afford it, which is why I’ve always stayed home with her.
By Emery Pine4 years ago in Fiction
Synth: Chapter 1
Sometimes, two people, from opposite ends of the Earth, from drastically different lives, find themselves in the same place at the same time. There’s something that led them there. Maybe it was a niggle within them, an intuitive pull that made no sense. Or if you were Klara Kraljev, it was a need for a cosy little nook in a cafe in Copenhagen where she could read to the percussion of baristas making coffees, the scent of the fresh brews mixed with toasted sandwiches-to-go, the sight of locals coming and going. She adored observing people from behind her latest read. Their clothes, their mannerisms, their usual orders; whether they greeted the barista with a grumble, whilst on their phone, or with a boisterous hello followed by a rundown of their last twenty-four hours. Some people observe, and then forget about what they saw. Klara observed, and used what she saw as inspiration for characters in her own novels. Perhaps it was the way someone did their hair one day, or it was the conversation they had with their friend as they waited for their order to be ready, or it was the ideas these real-life characters prompted in Klara’s mind when they walked out the door and into the rest of their day. She loved to guess where they would go, what they would do, the sort of people they would meet on their travels. It baffled her that there were people who didn’t do the same, who didn’t constantly have plots, ideas, conversations between characters in her head, or spur of the moment ideas at 1am for a new novel idea. What went on in their brains instead?
By Monique Kostelac4 years ago in Fiction
Healing
Excerpt from the book I'll never write #8 It was a cold Monday morning. The kind that almost felt cruel as the chill seeped into the skin underneath the layers of fabric. Christine had not experienced this for as long as she could remember. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept through the night and woke rested. It was as if she had spent the last 12 months in a limbo-state. She was only half there for the last 365 days. The pain kept her awake most nights and only medication could send her to sleep. More often than not though, she would wake not feeling rested. Waking slowly off medication is not the same nor is it as nice as waking to the golden morning light. The understated shadows that were being formed by the shutter style blinds told her it was mid morning. The birds chirping that once annoyed her now held contentment and delight. She felt calm, content and desire. Desire of wanting to get up and face the day. Even if it was just for a cup of tea.
By Chiara Ann Vicary4 years ago in Fiction
Intrinsic Knowledge
They had reached a mutual agreement. An agreement that would alter both their lives for the rest of their lives. A functional family business carried generation to generation is the dream of many American families... families not much unlike theirs. For a parent to have a son or daughter follow in his or her footsteps is a century old tradition representative of familial pride. Surely, the bond struck here in the auspicious sterility of her kitchen would be no less than those of earlier entrepreneurial families. always eager to please their every whim, to meet their approval by any means necessary. Now, her recently regained father, the missing link in her life had come to her unsought... self motivated... self-determined asking her to come into business with him. This, in her opinion, was the highest honor a child could receive. The opportunity of being ally...cohort in an already successful business operated by one's parent. She intuitively gathered all information readily accessible to her in this elated state. Questions of intent and predetermined matters of business flew rampantly through her mind.
By CarmenJimersonCross4 years ago in Fiction
Negotiations with the Dead - Part One
Negotiating with the Dead - Part One Dear Margaret Atwood, I have begun reading your book Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing. I am far too shy to write to you or trouble you with the wonderings of my mind. I doubt you reading this would add anything to your day, but as I read I find that I very much want to reply to you like we were having tea and having a conversation. You say to me the words that you have written in the book and I reply in a way that is so quiet, you can't hear me and I can't interrupt you. I doubt my reflection on your thoughts would add anything to your great vault of knowledge and experience, but I'd like to dissect them more carefully.
By Stephanie Van Orman4 years ago in Fiction
The Lost Star
Tom, flashing his torchlight with deep thoughts about his penultimate battery porch, felt the bizarre wind on him while walking along the cold desert. He looked around and paused for a moment whether to march forward or set up a camp for the night.
By Govardhan Pinni4 years ago in Fiction
