Fable
The Magic Pen
Once upon a time there was a young author who loved to write. He was so wealthy from an inheritance that he could afford to do nothing but write. He made it a point to write every day. Write something. It became such a part of his life that he fantasized a dreadful, horror... that when his pen ran out of ink, his own blood would stop flowing.
By Gerard DiLeo2 years ago in Fiction
Passing of the Reins
My Uncle’s letter told me to meet him at 325 Ambrosia Way, a beautiful three-story mansion on the outskirts of town. Not seeing his car, when I pulled up, I debated getting out or staying in the car to wait for him when I noticed the front door opening. So I got out of the car and walked towards the entrance, not once seeing anyone around the place as I went.
By Mother Combs2 years ago in Fiction
Symphony of Shadows
In the heart of Europe, where cobblestone streets whispered tales of centuries past, there stood a prestigious school that echoed with the footsteps of tradition. Into this world entered a girl named Amina, her ebony skin a stark contrast to the hallowed halls of marble and the sea of pale faces that greeted her. Amina, a black beauty from a distant land, embarked on a journey through the corridors of European academia, her presence challenging the conventions of an age-old institution.
By Okewu Emmanuel2 years ago in Fiction
Black sand and slate skin trees
Rolling hills of black sand and slate-skin trees - you can't picture it until you go there. A forest of immense scale, now so devoid of life, totally arid and deprived. The air is thick and starved of oxygen, but crystal clear. From any given point, you could see a kilometre ahead - all the more troubling. There are no birds, no shrubs or thickets, no mammals or bugs to be seen. You'll find no glade pools filled with little fishies; no rivers running through. Not even a basin with a swampy bog. You'll find no signs that life could be sustained there. Because it can't...not anymore.
By Wray_written2 years ago in Fiction
Mr. Sandman
- Damn, it's been a long night. Mr. Sandman laid back within his own shadow and sighed. Every dreamer needs a reminder that he has visited; he did feel his delicate touch was underestimated by some of the deeper dreamers. Each night he placed a bit of small, yellowish grain in the inner corners of well closed eyes. He always stood back and had a good look before moving on to the next sleeper. Over the years he had split up the planet with some, let's just say, sand workers, to be sure everyone was covered. The art of placing sand near a human's eye was not easily learned yet although immortal he actually grew tired of doing the work solo. There was one thing weighing quite heavily upon this legend. Mr. Sandman never had the time for romance, dancing, or any thrill seeking and he began to find his work dull. The world had depended on him for far too long and not with one thank you, just moaning complaints he overheard. Mothers told children to wash the sand out of their eyes before school and in old folks homes nursing aides carefully wiped their patients eyes with moist clothes to freshen them up. What was the point? Mr. Sandman was long, lean and his skin was burnt sienna, like the infamous Crayola crayon. He had seen all the world's deserts from the Sahara to the Patagonian, he had even attended "Burning Man" twice. Funny thing is, no one truly believed him when they asked who he was and what he did and all. Immortality sounds quite intriguing to the fragile, human mind but Mr. Sandman swears it's a curse. No one put sand in his eyes, checked on him to see if he was feeling alright and other than with his understudies, he didn't have anyone to communicate with. One dusky evening, just around Christmas he had what one might call an epiphany. A muse fell into his hands and he felt driven, almost manically so, to become more decorative when leaving his trademark; perhaps then he would at least hear some praise or be the recipient of a much longed for cognisant recognition that would lend some status to his trade. Thus the tale of Mr. Sandman's artistic endeavours begins.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
