Love
Village Secret (The Racist Killing of Reginald Johnson)
1. A Rocky Beginning Not many people across the whole of Scotland wanted this story told, but for the life of Me, I felt society owed it to Reginald Johnson to have some kind of true account recorded of how it came to be, that he was brutally killed one tragically magical moon-lit May night, in a then little known village in the Scottish Highlands.
By Andrew Little4 years ago in Fiction
Write In The Middle of It
The Basement was filling up quickly even though the band has still setting up. When Mekayla walked in she was pleasantly surprised that Brett had secured her favorite booth. When he stood up, she took survey of him again. He was wearing a lime green turtleneck and brown slacks. Brett's smile was amazing as well as infectious. She couldn't help smiling back at him as she sat down on her side of the booth.
By Majique MiMi4 years ago in Fiction
No Romance
Have you ever read a love story without romance? The clouds hang in the sky like lumps of cotton, almost obscuring the brightly shining sun. A girl sitting looking up at the sky, leaning against a tree trunk, and sitting on ankle-deep grass. She takes a deep breath, her phone is ringing.
By SAFIRA ARNETTE C.S4 years ago in Fiction
Orphan House. Runner-Up in Return of the Night Owl Challenge. Top Story - January 2022.
The house sinks into the earth, heavier now that she’s empty than she ever was when children scurried across her floors every morning. The newest piece of her is a sign nailed to the front door: “Condemned.”
By Jessica Gonzalez4 years ago in Fiction
The Ending is the Beginning
My day started relatively normal. I rolled out of bed, got dressed and woke up my six-month-old son Eli. I gave him a bottle and got him ready for the day. I sat him down in his bouncer while I woke up my husband, Jack, for work. He opened his eyes, smiled at me, and pulled me into bed.
By Stephanie Downard4 years ago in Fiction
The Prattles of Jon Prakem
"Do I yearn for the end? I don't know, Darling. I just don't know..." The rocking chair was old, but sturdily built. Its wood, worn in places by incessant use, held Jon Prakem's weight—no more than skin and bones in his withered state—with ease. With a little movement of his own it was set to rocking back and forth. Back and forth.
By Sebastian Russo4 years ago in Fiction
Write In The Middle Of It
Mekayla was suffering from the worst case of writer's block and because of this she had become impossible to deal with. She could be laughing and joking one minute then the next minute become snappy and reclusive. Erik thought that if he volunteered Mekayla's services for Haunted Poetry Weekend, it would keep her mind busy and off of the fact she couldn't write.
By Majique MiMi4 years ago in Fiction
The Day We Met
I remember the day we met. I was running late for a photo shoot. I couldn’t find the lens I specifically wanted, it turned out it had been on the camera body the entire time. So I was frazzled, under-caffeinated, and hadn’t eaten anything when I arrived at the bird sanctuary. I gathered up my gear from the backseat of my little Honda and jogged, carefully, across the open green space to the barn where I was going to be shooting.
By Shelby Perez4 years ago in Fiction
Unspoken
"The girl couldn't stop sobbing while she sat in front of the window looking at the distant hills in the full moon. " Introducing Patrick. the night owl... This story is the cumulation of the events as observed by Patrick who was amused at seeing humans at the inn in the Ishinaba district. They always behaved in predictable, stale ways but this girl was different from her species. She hasn't spoken since she has gotten here...
By Anindita Alstriem4 years ago in Fiction
