Love

The Perfect Pear
“Would a pear by any other name taste as sweet?” “You know that’s not the actual quote, right?” I say to the pear hovering an inch from my face.
By Whitney Theresa June4 years ago in Fiction
When silence says it all
Being a Taurus wasn’t easy. Picky in all aspects, selective when it comes to relationships, food. Strong willed, resilient, artistic, never shows feelings toanyone.
By Chacha Jaramillo4 years ago in Fiction
The Perfect Pear
I can still hear her melodious laughter in my dreams. I long to stay under the blanket of slumber to see her face again, feel her touch, hear her lilting voice; but my buzzing alarm clock screams its objections.
By Hannah Pugh4 years ago in Fiction
The Pear Tree
That pear tree had been planted the day he was born. And every year, the tree branched higher and higher to the sky. As a lad, he took wonder in the flowering branches. He loved the smell and beauty of the blossoms as their petals caressed his cheek. He would spend hours under its coverage, reading a book or enacting wonderous adventures in its boughs. Sometimes he was a pirate, surveying the sea from the crow’s nest. Sometimes he was a jungle cat, watching his prey drink water under his concealed perch. Sometimes, he was the world’s famous trapeze artist, receiving thunderous applause for his spectacular performance.
By Shannon 4 years ago in Fiction
Sotto Voce
Why won’t you play for me, father?  In the hallway, his music breathes. I sit outside of his door, crossed-legged on the floor, listening to all the things that he says with the instrument. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata creeps from under the door. I am spiralling into it. Into the life that he is creating through each note. It tells me a story. And what is this story that I imagine while I listen to him play? Well, it begins like this…
By Katheleen4 years ago in Fiction
Ceremony
With each stroke of the mallet against the chisel, she could feel his movement, see the motion, hear the sounds of wood becoming. She could feel his movement when he went into the dark forest to get the rich dark wood. She remembered how he would walk the woods, and talk to the trees. How he would sit on the ground How once he found a stand he liked and just look at each of the trees. Eventually, he would talk to each tree and listen to their stories. She would watch him place his hands on each tree as the conversation went on and on, tree by tree until he finally had talked with each of them. He’d finally found the tree, a tree just right. And then he would sing to the tree, a song of gratitude, filled with sadness. Then he would pull away from the tree, still singing and calling it by name. He pull out the saw and the axe, and begin cutting down this one tree so that he had wood to work. This tree was special as was what it would create.
By William Rosenberg4 years ago in Fiction
The Lady of the Lake. Top Story - August 2021.
Elvis once sang of love as a burning thing. He was right, of course; it had been burning and bright and untamed. Like a wildfire, it had been all-consuming. Burning, burning, burning - love had warmed my cheeks and stolen breath from my lungs just as flame and smoke might have.
By P.K. Lowe4 years ago in Fiction
The Long Thaw
Remember when you wrote that song for me? The first week we fell in love. You wrote that I was the silver lining in your sky. Face to face, my legs wrapped around your hips—I in your computer chair and you off the side of your bed—you’d look into my eyes as if for inspiration before penning the next line. Beautiful green eyes stared back at me, as enchanting as they were pleasured. I wondered if it was a façade. Past it, you struggled coming up with words, perhaps more pressured than creative; that’s how I would’ve felt. But you were a song writer and musician, and I realized all you really had to do was write exactly what you saw in front of you. If it wasn’t love, it wasn’t love.
By Abigail Y4 years ago in Fiction
He Who Keeps
She had loved her Grandmother’s stories as a child, regaling to her tales of fae and that which bound them. Like many her age, she had enjoyed playing outside, her feet bringing her to a long since overgrown garden, a small pond sitting within it. She had found within it a haven, her favourite being the winter months when it was frozen. Peering through the ice, the child pictured a world within, occasionally letting her imagination get the better of her as she envisioned eyes, piercing and elegant staring back up at her through it.
By ClassyStars4 years ago in Fiction
The Proposal
Elizabeth stepped out onto the ice of the frozen pond, tentatively at first, and then with more confidence. The pond stretched before her like a sheet of diamond glass. It was beautiful and peaceful - she had not been on the ice since she and Jacob had been married.
By Yolanda Olivia Anderson4 years ago in Fiction
A Frosty Hope
Despite the bone deep chill that hung in the air Hector didn’t close the door to the barn that overlooked the frozen pond. The only way to keep the cold at bay was to work harder on the custom wardrobe, nearly ready to fill a commission. His focus was flimsy as his gaze kept lingering on the far shore of the frozen water. It was long past the time they should have appeared. The thaw this year was slow in coming and he knew he would only see them once the ice groaned with its impending cracks. If they came again at all.
By TFima4 years ago in Fiction
Hooked on a Winter's Day
Sightseeing on a winter’s day when it’s well below freezing and there’s snow on the ground is best left to the back seat of a warm car driven by a professional. We cruised beautiful buildings both old and new, sculptures of “The Scout,” “The Muse of the Missouri,” and the “J.C. Nichols Fountain” among all the others that left us feeling awed. The snow seemed to add to the ethereal quality of the art. The fountain was partially covered, but the arching beauty of the horses was a call to the great Italian sculptors of another time. The large bronze image of Rodin’s “The Thinker,” even though a duplication, was impressive, and we agreed that the shuttlecocks on the lawn, also found at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, were just silly. The Korean War Memorial, was sobering, as was The Liberty Memorial. The National World War I Monument tower stood starkly over the landscape, where the 217’ tall silhouette was visible for a great distance from the city. The convention center, the opera hall, the sports stadiums, the arena, and the museums, our driver found no shortage of things to be seen.
By Lois Brand4 years ago in Fiction