Fantasy
Life of an Owl Woman
Saoirse Byrne didn't want to believe the screeches that kept her awake for the last two nights were a warning of her loved one's impending death. She denied it, as much as she denied her heritage over the years and extended family obligations. Then her husband got cancer, and she was desperate to understand the meaning as if old traditions and superstitions held a secret to prolonging his fate.
By Erin Smith4 years ago in Fiction
The Assassin's Shade
I never thought I would be back here. The memory of this place is so painful that I swore I would leave this part of my life far behind me and never look back. It’s one of the few lessons I learned from the Faction that I still hold close to my chest. Never relive the past.
By Nicole Maridan4 years ago in Fiction
The Return of the Barn Owl
It was the winter of 2015 when I lost my father. I grieved heavily over him and suffered a tremendous pain. Both anger and chaos flamed thru my family like a wildfire ablaze, and we never seemed to be on the same page. We begin to grow distant then apart from one another, and it lingered like a bad smell in the air. As the months grew colder anxiety and depression covered me like a wool blanket, just like several other winters that went by. And it changed me in ways I thought would never change in me. I longed deeply for my father each day, yet I longed for strength even more!
By Angelicia Glaze4 years ago in Fiction
The Promise
- As we walked down the narrow path, the branches of the trees stretched high over the road, reaching for each other. If it were a sunny day, it would have felt comforting. However tonight was cold and dark, and the trees appeared menacing. I never had wished our father could be with us more than at that moment. When he promised he would always be there to guide us and protect us after Mamma passed, I believed him. How was I to know when we ran in the field to play, dashing around his strong arms spread wide for a hug, that chance to embrace him, would be our last?
By Jessica Owens4 years ago in Fiction
DAWN
Crickets chirping, the smell of fresh cut grass, apples falling from the trees. I was as happy as Santa Claus after a hot chocolate and three chocolate chip cookies. I could not wait to get to the barn and play with baby Justine. She was born on a wet Friday evening. Her mother was quite a squealer sometimes from sunup to sundown. The constant sound made me scream, Just Stop Just Stop! So, when we found out she was pregnant I said I will name the first girl Just Stop Justine or just, Justine.
By LaTonya Falls4 years ago in Fiction
Feathers and Lances
Charles slept nary a wink since he and most of the other feathered residents of the Royale Rookery had unceremoniously been relocated to the Gainesville Fairgrounds on Friday, two days previous. The rookery arrived just in time for the annual Hoggetowne Medieval Faire and to participate in Jerome’s sorry excuse for an avian show, grossly entitled, “Birds of Prey”. “Birds of Lame” somehow sounded better in old Charlie Boy’s head, and the barn owl chortled to himself at his own wit. Of course, the chortle came out more as a series of shrill chirps, making the peregrine next to him flap her wings and find new purchase on her perch with those razor-sharp talons of hers. The falcon then eyed Charles in the most disapproving manner.
By Kir the Mortician4 years ago in Fiction
An Evening Stroll
Humans think they know the sound of an owl. That classic, onomatopoeic "Who, who?" But that is the kind of thought that only animals past a certain size, with the privilege of enough sheer mass might have. You see, owls are killing machines. They have tons of little adaptations that make them perfect for murder. If you are ever lucky, or, perhaps, unlucky enough to see an owl up close, take a look at their wings. You might imagine you know what an owls wings look like. You've seen enough daytime birds, and an owl is, after all, just another bird. But owl wings are different. Where a hawk or a cardinal will have smooth wings, almost reminiscent of something manufactured and perfect, owls have ratty, uneven wings. Like the ends of a frayed piece of rope. It seems out of place, but it serves a very real purpose. As a bird flies, the air slides over its wings in two sheets of air, one over the top and one over the bottom. On those smooth winged, daytime birds, those sheets of air come back together on the far side of the wing and make a whistling sound. A sound that a sharp eared animal might hear. But with an owl, all those little tufts, those feathers that seem so out of place on a cursory examination, those feathers disturb the air flow just enough. They form a thousand little vortices such that there aren't two large sheets coming together on the trailing edge of the wing, but countless little cominglings of air in countless different directions that, all told, do a rather neat job of cancelling each other out. To even the sharpest eared prey animal, this means that where a diving hawk sounds like a brief scream that you might, just might be able to dodge, an owl sounds like the barest whisper, if you can even hear it over the sound of the wind. So, in a very real sense, in some ways, the true sound of an owl is silence.
By David James4 years ago in Fiction
Surfer of the Skies
David had no idea where they were going to end up next. He and Bob had just left a planet of dinosaurs. They were much larger than he had expected, but nowhere near the size of Bob. He and Bob had been traveling the universe for… well as long as David could remember. They had visited dozens, if not hundreds of worlds. He didn't bother counting. Why keep track anyway? It was all about the adventure of exploring the cosmos.
By Alex Blackstone4 years ago in Fiction
Chapter 1 - Getting Begat
Josef awoke in a bubbling goo-sac. He stared at his hands and blinked, swished them in front of his face. It was that slow, strange moment just before reality makes its first demand. And its demand for young Josef was quite simple: try your best, in the next few moments, to survive.
By SpectacularLoophole4 years ago in Fiction
The Tower
In the center of a wild forest stands a tower I call home. I call it home proudly as the forest hosts danger of all sorts- nameless monsters and phantoms of the night- which I don’t wish to encounter. Even though I have never met the creatures of the dark and day, the legends’ echo travels swiftly among the trees, telling haunted stories and their warning resounds unmistakably. Therefore, I better stay inside my tower and be sheltered for my sake.
By Carina Hofmeister4 years ago in Fiction
