Historical
The Bull
As the sun sets, a lone figure stands against the horizon. A herd of cattle lumbers into the barn for the night. His shadow is long. One of the cows getting close to the shadow rears her head as if it were alive and would react to her being near. Then over the horizon, a massive shadow appears. Two large horns jut out of the creature's head, giving it a powerful presence. The young man watches the bull trek to the barn. His massive body packed with muscles making him a fierce presence. The young man gives a simple whistle without saying a word, and his horse follows behind the bull. He closes the gate while still in the saddle, and with a precise movement, the horse takes off toward the house. He takes the saddle off the horse and walks him over to his fenced-in area and places his head against the horse's head, and says, "I love you, my friend."
By Jeff Johnson4 years ago in Fiction
JACK OF DIAMONDS
iii The sun slowly slipped into the distance, locked in a blaze of bright autumnal colours on the horizon. Willow trees were standing in silhouette on the horizon, twisting, bending—as if crying out in protest over the last vestiges of summers past—whipping their near naked branches in frustration as the wind picked up from the East, bringing huge storm clouds scuttling across a darkening sky. Tall aspens serving as windbreaks, bowed and undulated as though they were servants, while steely elms stood with the taciturn patience of age, along with fir trees, standing tall and erect, and looking as if they were rooks on a chessboard. The long grass writhed across the various hills and hummocks—every hump, knoll, prominence, and tor—the long blades rippling in the setting sun as though waves on an emerald ocean.
By ben woestenburg4 years ago in Fiction
Fields
Furious deep reds, angry and muddy oranges, lightning hot yellows, tints of greens and bitter blues, twirl and warp together. They cast a scorching heat and a bloody-red glow across the cobblestone. Cold tears of anguish followed by bouts of hot tears of injustice slough down her cheeks in rotating frequencies. The clattering of hooves and rattling of wheels mix into the cacophony of footfalls pounding ground as a growing crowd rushes to quail the beast. She collapses to her knees, unable to peel her eyes from the sight nor will her legs to move. A gentle hand cups her shoulder and she stifles her sobs.
By WHATisYOURobsession4 years ago in Fiction
Flower of 1348
The ombre shades of death hung heavy along the skyline. With her head slightly turned, she could just make out the black outline of the becchini (coffin bearers). Moving in wearied cadence, six of them were etched against the early morning sky. Carting away the newly dead and even some who were still clinging to a bit of life. At this distance, she could not distinguish between the two. All she could see were mounds of human flesh being jolted and jiggled in a horrid movement toward the exit of the Citta’ di Firenze (City of Florence).
By Brenda Klug4 years ago in Fiction
A Gunslinger's Flower
The morning sun shown bright over the tree tops warming the land around me as I sat puffing on a cigarette poking the embers of a dying fire. Hearing a rustle behind me I turned to see the entrance of the tent part and her reddish brown hair dance in the breeze as she stretched out with a yawn.
By Jake Xagas4 years ago in Fiction
NO MAN'S LAND
1918 I left from one war and found myself coming home to another. One would argue it wasn’t the Great War’s trenches that destroyed me, but what was waiting for me when I returned home. I had nightmares about it, the terror of returning to no wife, no baby girl. As if covered in debris and the spits of war wasn’t enough – I was burdened by nightmares while sleeping in those trenches. They say war brings you closer to life and death, that some soldiers lose themselves in it that they begin to see things, moments that haven’t happened yet, relatives long dead and buried. I never believed such things could happen; but it seemed life and death met in the battlefields of men in more ways than one.
By Patrick Santiago4 years ago in Fiction
FORBIDDEN FLOWER
Violet lifted her glasses and rubbed her eyes; she had been staring at the screen too long and she had a headache. She was about to tell a story that she had never shared with anyone before. She went to the kitchen to drink some water, at 75 she was still very agile and independent, she noticed it was 9.30pm, she’d forgotten to eat dinner again. Since beginning to write her memoirs she had often become so caught up in the past that she forgot to attend to the present, her daughter Moira would have something to say if she found out, so Violet opened her cupboard and fished out a can of soup which she microwaved and put in a mug. Sat back in front of the screen she re-read her last few paragraphs, ‘and that is when I first saw her, the beautiful Mari Gold. Her father and mine were business associates and friends.’
By Julia Brennan 4 years ago in Fiction
Cempaxochitl
Shadows pass along a wall, soft voices murmuring in tongues. For the longest time the elements consume me, bone-chilling cold replaced by burning fire. Each thought disappearing with the horror of crashing, monstrous waves. Faces and hands fading each time I cry out, reaching for terra firma, God help me! So then, it is true, in my first moment of consciousness it comes to me that even a heathen will cry out at his end. Only, it does not end.
By David Quast4 years ago in Fiction
jack of diamonds
“How are you?” “How am I? I’m still hungry. I told you I was hungry hours ago.” “Maybe later. We still have to make a decision about tonight,” Sonia said, brushing a strand of hair out of her face as she slipped her notebook back into her pocket. They were walking along George Street, approaching Fore and The White Hart, the local hotel and eatery. The sun was starting to set. Nigel supposed it would be another hour at the most. The east side of the street was Saunders’s pig farm, where they’d just come from; the west side of the street was thin, spindly birch and aspen trees which had lost most of their leaves. The sun came through the trees at an angle, dappling the paving stones ahead of them with light and shadows. The breeze had a bite to it too, but Nigel wasn’t about to tell her he was cold.
By ben woestenburg4 years ago in Fiction
