Excerpt
Creatures with Wings
The world had truly become a dangerous place. A wise individual would know never to travel through the increasingly scarce lands and seas alone. Even a child foolish enough to set out on their own would be left for dead by their own mother if she herself were wise. However, if someone had the chance to travel by flight, the chances of harm coming to them might as well be null. The skies above the clouds were normally quiet and serene, and a beast daemn like Phoel knew this well.
By Quincy Kirkpatrick5 years ago in Fiction
Blue Butterfly Dreams
A butterfly. Not just any butterfly, though. She has seen this butterfly before. Electric blue, incandescent, intricately patterned wings, and a melodic song. She didn't know butterflies made sounds apart from the flapping of wings. She'd seen other butterflies before but never heard them, definitely not like this. The melody of its song was mesmerizing, it made her want to dance, but she decided to run instead.
By Melancholic Mama5 years ago in Fiction
The Busboy part I
Friday, 13 February 1981 It had been a tough shift, an odd one for the opening of the weekend for Cyril Litton. Normally there were two busboys working during the week and three on Friday and Saturday, but the other guys scheduled weren’t there. And one of the bartenders was out, too. That left Cy as the only person bussing tables and he had to deliver ice and restock the bar. And, of course, the wait staff hadn’t bothered to help him out with any “pre-bussing,” getting plates and stuff off the table when patrons were finished. “Friday the Thirteenth, go figure,” he said to himself.
By L. Lane Bailey5 years ago in Fiction
Chapter 1: Footprints
The footprints meandered, but not in a way that suggested staggering frat boys or beachcombers looking for shells. No, these were deeper, carefully chosen, and mixed with half-prints where their creator tested the ground, thought better of it and retracted the step. The path was winding and uneven, but from deliberation, not carefree or drunken wandering.
By Amelia Grace Newell5 years ago in Fiction
The Eleventh Hour
As Brently Mallard walked down the path to his home, he couldn't help but gaze at the "tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street a peddler was crying his wares." Brently began to sing. His voice was rich and melodic, wafting through the streets. The "countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves," harmonizing with his sweet song. He had been away from home for so long, too long... and it felt strange going down the pathway home. The freedom of being away was refreshing, and the space he had gotten had been desperately needed. However, Brently did miss Mrs. Mallard, somewhat anyway. He hoped that she was in satisfactory health and that all was well. Inhaling the fresh spring air, he couldn't avoid the cloudy thought of the symbolic drought that he knew he was walking towards.
By Rowan Finley 6 years ago in Fiction
