Fantasy
Strange Bouquet
The bouquet of yellow flowers on his bed were what Wyatt was expecting. Marigolds, if memory served him right. Beautiful flowers that he constantly got in October and always on his pillow. For what? He had no real idea. It all started when he was around eighteen years old. With absolutely no card or anything on them. Just the flowers laid neatly on top of his pillow.
By Raphael Fontenelle5 years ago in Fiction
Deathjaw
In a tavern long ago was told a pirate tale, but for this story it’s hard to say exactly how to begin. Many claim this legend is false, but many swear it’s true. It’s a story that’s been passed down from sailor to sailor, a story that was told by Pirates.
By Stephen Portis5 years ago in Fiction
The Legend of Elsie
Tom sits, pen poised over the page in his new little black notebook. There are several paragraphs written, then crossed out. He pushes the dining chair away from the kitchen table in his short-term rental apartment. "My story has no life in it, and I don't know what to do with it," he thinks, running his hands through his thinning hair. Adam gave me his winning lottery ticket so I could finish this book. I have no more excuses, maybe I've just been deluding myself that all I needed was time and money —"
By @choosethesmiles5 years ago in Fiction
Bwạwyd the Earthmother
"At the beginning of the world grew a single Pear Tree. From its fruit was born the moon and stars and all their offspring and, from it came forth the first woman: rich as ebony with hair like the night sky. From her womb grew all earthly things: men and their children; the birds and the earthbound; the crops and creeping things and all the earth's wonders. The woman chose a man for her mate-- this one twined through the skill of her hands --and through him they had many children. But his eyes were wandering and his heart devious. He dreamt of things not of the earth, and planned to slay the woman and gain her power, so that he might remake the world in his own image; bright and burning, like his furious heart. He did not know that the woman's power was of the Tree, and thus immutable. It could not be either lost or gained.
By Elizabeth Noyes5 years ago in Fiction
All That Remains
Isn't it funny that we should find the hidden beauty in the things that we leave behind? Labored by the hands of a craftsman, materials gathered and manipulated into form. Minutes stretched into hours which gave way to days that strung into weeks. Rough hands worked the tools of their trade, forged in fires to heat their metal, molds cast to bring shape to life. Used to remove and clear away the uneven perfection of nature, dumped and discarded out of the way. The ground leveled to give a stable base to what was to sit upon it, a much needed and most unremarkable barn. At least, that is the storied life that it was to have, but a path intended isn't always the path that we choose in the end.
By AgeLessFate5 years ago in Fiction
The Magic Barn
The Owl flew into the old barn and perched on the rafter. He sat there majestically, the King of the Night, waiting for her to come. They would meet at this appointed place every night. This was their only time together, for they could never coexist in reality. In a previous time they had been in love, but an evil witch had cursed them. She had taken them from their human forms and transformed them into their animal shapes. The love of his life had taken on the figure of his prey. A small white mouse would sneak into the barn. She would hide among the scattered ruins. She was careful to remain unseen until the hour came each night that would free them momentarily from their spell. This was no ordinary barn for it had been blessed with magic. It was the magic of Love capable of bringing together the impossible.
By Pamela Johnson5 years ago in Fiction
Ghost Story
Poppy waited in the cemetery until nightfall—there was nothing else they could really do. While they didn’t particularly mind being a ghost, it was getting boring fast. According to Blair, spirits usually weren’t powerful enough to interact with the living outside of midnight in their first few weeks of death. And he would know, of course—he was the local ghost hunter, after all. Poppy didn’t even believe in ghosts until they were one.
By Christian Bellmore5 years ago in Fiction
