Love
A Name is A Powerful Thing
The gentle snowfall muffled Clair’s steps on the well-worn path to the chicken pen as the water buckets in either hand sloshed from side to side. Humming a quiet tune to herself she went about her morning routine, greeting each animal by name and in her own way greeting the new day. As the sun crested the mountain and banished the pastel paintings overhead, Clair strayed from the beaten paths of her property and made her way into the forest.
By Jane Northwood4 years ago in Fiction
Letters in the Night
"Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies." —Aristotle N, The confines of these plastered walls cultivates the longing to be traversing your world instead of mine. The ruffles and nonsensical festivities do little to satisfy my boredom. I desire wind. I desire the grass greeting my toes. But most, I desire no I crave your arms encasing me. Until the sun no longer returns each morn, I will love you.
By Taylor Faford4 years ago in Fiction
Melancholy Musings and The Taste of Ink
"You're sure this is the one?" "Yep. That's the one." Ike had known me since I was a kid, so I could understand him wanting to give me a chance to change my mind. He cared about me and didn't want me doing something I might regret later. That, and he knew he was going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do when my Dad caught up with him.
By Jessie Waddell4 years ago in Fiction
Secrets Worth Keeping
I jumped down from my window ledge, wiping my hands down my dress to make sure no leaves or dirt from the house was stuck on me. I hated sneaking out of my house but my father was strict. He was the Mayor of Middletown and expected me to act a certain way. That meant, I wasn't allowed to see my boyfriend, Chase who lived on the wrong side of town.
By Nicole C Mullins4 years ago in Fiction
Closer to Closure
I just happened to look over at the doorway for a second and saw the back of his head. He had a small balding spot where his hair met in a circle that was recognizable. I could see the black frames of his glasses poking out on the sides of his face. His jacket matched his frames and his jeans were a dark blue. His clothes snuggled his muscular frame comfortably. I saw him walk away with the person he was with that looked to be feminine. Could it really be him?
By Bo Flopity4 years ago in Fiction
Reminiscences
I left a note. Despite a thumping heart and unsteady hands, I resolved to leave that much of myself behind: words on a college ruled page torn from his now-tattered notebook. The notebook was as old as our love, and the receding corners and faded letters of the cover betrayed its age upon first glance. I clutched the just-finished note in my shaky right hand as I stared into the toothpaste-stained glass of the old medicine cabinet. My eyes oscillated between the rusty faucet underneath, the slow single-droplet drip from its head, the cabinet’s chipped corners that we’d resolved to fix over a hundred times, and back to my own aging face staring back at me—three distinct lines now cut across my forehead even when relaxed. My left hand instinctively went up to trace these new permanent residents of my face, my mouth agape, aghast, as I widened and shrunk my eyes, observing the lines becoming deeper and shallower with the movement, but always prominently visible.
By Zach Leathers4 years ago in Fiction
The Peculiar Visitor of the Night Watchman
If we're being completely honest, then Charlie Tibbs was not the best candidate to become the night watchman for the Museum of Classical Art. It wasn't that Mr. Tibbs was at all bad at his job: he was thrilled by it, and had been for the past fifty-three years, ever since he'd left the farm with its large barn and mooing occupants for the big city. He took every nightly tour with a methodical nature honed by time, and punctuated by an appreciation of the same paintings and statues he'd admired every night before this one. He was always cordial, always on time, never slept through the wee hours of the morning, never took his lunch break somewhere he wasn't supposed to--in short, he was perfect in all but one aspect.
By Justin von Bosau4 years ago in Fiction
Grazia Deledda, "Cenere"
Grazia Deledda (1871–1936) completed only elementary studies but accumulated disparate readings ranging from Dumas to Balzac, from Scott to the Invernizio. She was especially passionate about Eugene Sue, whom she defined as “capable of moving the soul of an ardent girl.” As Vittorio Spinazzola states in the preface to the Mondadori edition of “Cenere” in 73, her vocation is fueled by a “disorderly ultra-romanticism” prone to emphasis and melodrama. “She read everything, good stuff and mediocre stuff, in the library put together, a bit at random, by her father; and she obeyed her instinct that suggested that she write.” (Dino Provenzal)
By Patrizia Poli4 years ago in Fiction
Elsie
Sometimes I wonder if the things that I remember are actually real… I remember a time, back when the two of us used to live in our shabby little apartment in the suburbs of Seattle. We’d fall asleep every night to the leak in the ceiling above our hallway dripping drops into the sauce pan we put there to prevent the carpet from getting wet and the apartment from reeking of mold. Within a few months of moving from Tucson, we learned that mold eventually permeates everything you own, know, and love when you live in the Pacific North West. We’d spend every morning before you left for work sipping coffee and watching the rain. You’d tell me all the wild new things you were learning in school that week and I’d sit there nodding, pretending that I was half as intelligent as you were. When you were away at work or school for the day, I’d often imagine you spying on me. I’d do every boring house hold activity with bold, humorous gesticulations, keeping my posture straight and my hair down so that the imaginary you that was watching me would be impressed by my charm and good looks. ‘He washes the windows so elegantly’ you’d think to yourself as you spied on me through the skylight.
By Minda Lacy4 years ago in Fiction
The Night Ferry
“Hoo hoo.” I’m startled awake by the barn owl that has inexplicably taken up residence outside of my window. For a moment, I’m confused. I look around my dark room, the moon illuminating bits and pieces of it as it forces its way through the cracks in my curtains.
By Laura Swallow4 years ago in Fiction
