Love

Quiet love flowers where the road is bad
Halfway through the second act of a new stage production of Cider with Rosie, my Nana stands abruptly and declares at the top of her voice the script is banal, the actors as wooden as the set, and the direction a farce. Then, despite her great age, she clambers over several members of the audience and an usher to get to the emergency exit.
By Elaine Ruth White4 years ago in Fiction
The Pear Tree
You open your eyes. The pitter-patter of raindrops on the window has woken you from a dreamless sleep. Another night of delicious nothingness. But now you are awake and the teardrops sliding down the window- pane match those that have begun to trickle from your eyes. A teardrop sneaks its way into your ear, a ticklish reminder of whispers of love. You blink slowly, turning onto your side. Funny how an empty space can feel so full. You turn to face the window, unable to look at the reminder of enforced solitude. You close your eyes and sigh, swallowing back another outpouring of god-awful grief.
By Julie Murrow4 years ago in Fiction
Within Reaching Distance
"Don't. Just…don't" "You don't even know what I was about to say." "...Fine." "I'm not going to leave you." It is this concession that breaks her, forces her to the ground with an overloaded weight of emotions. One week, three days, six hours and 29 minutes ago, she carried a child within her. Now she carries agony. Fear. That aching crack in her sternum that feels like an itch she cannot scratch. Less blood, now, though - the resultant flow has been sporadic, but enough to serve as a constant, painful reminder of loss.
By Cat Bennett4 years ago in Fiction
Pear Tree
It's a breezy summer evening in this small, countryside town. A young boy called Peter, is seen walking home from school. It's Friday; the last day of school; the first day of summer break. The best day ever. The sixth grade treated him well, Peter reflected. He'd made many new friends, he liked his new teachers, and he was closer to home now. He liked walking home from school. Peter's mother always told him to mind the rocks in his path whenever he walked home alone. There were many rocks on that path. She never said anything about the trees, though. Peter's mother rarely picked him up from school anymore, since she spent a lot of her time taking care of her work-from-home business. At least, that's what she'd told him; she knew Peter liked the walk. She knew he loved to play in the trees, he loved throwing rocks; he loved to be in nature. Peter swung on thick tree branches, just to see how far he would go; it felt flying. He loved how strong most trees were; how he could swing his whole weight on its branches and how they wouldn't break. He used to do the same with his father, swing on his arm—when he was around. Peter never played like that with his mom, though; he knew her arms were too thin.
By aoki4 years ago in Fiction
Under the Pear Tree
They met each night under the pear tree in the back orchard. The only pear tree, oddly out of place in a field of apples, it had grown almost as if of its own accord. They chose it as a meeting place because of the mystery of the thing, itself. The lone pear tree, out of place in a vast society of normal expectations. The perfect place for a couple as out of place in society as the pear tree among apples.
By Alicia Borghese4 years ago in Fiction
Lost in the Moon's Ocean
Hiraeth (n): A homesickness for a home you cannot return to, or that never was ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By Melissa4 years ago in Fiction
Peach and a pear and I love your hair
"That tree doesn't look so good." Mom was performing her morning ritual of standing at the window in the kitchen, watching the shadows grow along the house and backyard.
By Caitlin Myler4 years ago in Fiction
Gretel's Orchard
Sitting in her mother’s chair, a weathered, red Adirondack, Violet closes her eyes. A warm gust of wind blows across her face, stirring up the dry earth beneath the pear tree and tickling the bronze elephant windchime hanging above her head. The chimes remind her of her childhood and her little sister, Zinnia, long since passed. She stands and rakes her fingers through her bobbed, silver-blonde hair, pulling the stray strands away from her face.
By Sherri Rolfs4 years ago in Fiction
Two Souls Diverge in a Wood, Underneath a Pear Tree
I walked right past him; YES, it was him, I’m sure. My heart started racing, can’t catch my breath, I could hardly stand, legs weak; why am I shaking so violently? Calm down; you always get like this. I turn to see if he looks back, staring at his beautiful backside, long mid-length charcoal gray coat, faded slim-fit jeans, dark olive suede shoes, wavy black hair with a beautiful shimmer of light dancing through it. He walks with such pristine confidence; oh my, that’s so attractive!
By Kimberly Paulus4 years ago in Fiction
The Perfect Pair
When I think back to my childhood, I think of a big yellow sun, and a warm breeze pushing my hair back as I run across a field in Provence. My family is from France, and my younger brother and I would go travel with our parents to visit our grandparents every summer. After a few summers, my parents invited our neighbors, The Connors, to travel with us.
By Alexandra Scoville4 years ago in Fiction
Meet me at the tree
She sat under her favorite pear tree watching the sunset. The world looked so peaceful that she never thought that the world could be anything but. But as she watched the sun go down, she wondered what she was going to do. She never thought she would be in this situation. She had always told what she was told, followed her families rules. The thought of breaking it never came into her mind. But here she was, in a situation that left her unsure and confused. There he was, coming up over the hill, the sun setting behind him. Him looking like a dream.
By Talara Nolan4 years ago in Fiction
Not Really Dead
The sky is dark, the rain is coming down with fury while thunder is making loud booming sounds throughout the sky and the lightening is cracking through the black clouds. What a sad day all around. The weather brings an extra depression to the funeral. The glum that can’t seem to go away at all. There is no laughter in the air, no slight smiles. It was as if Jeff’s life was a boring and he didn’t live an exciting, intriguing life, but he did, didn’t he?
By Ireland Lorelei 4 years ago in Fiction