Love
A Bed of Molten Flowers
The foyer was empty. I glanced right, then left, scanning the separate rooms in the old funeral home. The two-story, white mansion had been the final gathering place for most who had lived in our small town. I didn’t see anyone but could hear faint voices deeper in the house.
By Amy J. Markstahler4 years ago in Fiction
The Orange Flower
Bella. Ms. Bella. A jewel, inside of a gem. She learned at an early age that her skin color would always betray her. It didn't matter what, she saw in the mirror. She knew she was beautiful. But, Bella just couldn't fathom when she stepped outside, why the world didn't accept her beauty. Her shade was the color of the sweetest chocolate known to man. Yet, to most her shade was the shade of ugly; Darkness. Despair. A con artist. A criminal. A menace.
By Adrianne Kirksey4 years ago in Fiction
The Addiction and Rebirth of Love
Addiction, in the human dictionary, is defined as the fact or condition of being addicted to a particular substance, thing, or activity. To witness an addict is always unusual if you cannot understand the cravings. Addicts are everywhere, for there is an addict in most of us. Many are hard to pinpoint to the average naked eye. Here in this fancy restaurant branded as The Cheesecake Factory, are two addicts on a date. The two are on their 2 year anniversary on this planet Earth date of July 28, 2022. I have studied female specimen named Lavender, all of her 33 years of existence. The male specimen with her named Jeremiah, has just become part of her picture, as they say, for almost 3 years.The two has become insatiable for each other, inseparable and yolked as one. Those that encounter them tonight are utterly intrigued, having amazing awe at the sight of them. They are creating their own atmosphere within the classy restaurant's environment.
By Ebony Burns4 years ago in Fiction
Hopeless Romantic
“God I wish this moment would last forever…” she wept. He didn’t want to cry but that sentence broke through that barrier. Tears built up and formed out of his eyes. He let out a whimper after holding his breath in as if he was holding that emotion inside his body. He stood as strong as he could. He hugged her tighter. She ran her hands from his shoulders to his middle back. She hugged him tight around his waist. Then the release of emotion expressed itself. She grabbed him as hard and tight as she could. He let it all out.
By Kohl Younger4 years ago in Fiction
The Marigold Theatre
Sat in the middle seat of the middle row, his arm across the back of the two seats on either side of him, looking wistfully at the stage was Aaron Benson. He had been in the exact same position for the past two hours. He was the only one in the very small theatre. The silence sang a sweet melancholy song. A familiar melody; a low-whisper that entered his head and pulled memories down from the top shelf. Today makes 10 years since he had been trying to put his play on stage. He looked around – to the far right, just before the 3 black steps that lead onto the stage, was a green emergency door that opens to an alley just off a mildly busy London street. The door seemed to have a beckoning glisten around it. Tempting. If ever he felt like giving up and running away, it was today.
By Azuoma Obikudu4 years ago in Fiction
To Lay Amongst the Wheat
Hues of gold and yellow danced along her pale skin, haloing her form sprawled out amongst the wheat. Cicada song enveloped the atmosphere, a hypnotic hum broken only by the rustle of leaves in the warm, dry breeze. Time hung over us, brought to a standstill by yet another quiet afternoon in the endless summer. But I didn’t mind. I never wanted time to creep forwards again.
By Jeanie Mae4 years ago in Fiction
Little Yellow Suns
Mother’s garden was always fun to play in. Small in size, she had a way with design that made you feel like you were in the flower forests of Alice in Wonderland. Mother found her peace in the 20’x10’ frame she kept her flowers in, and I would spend hours going on grand adventures while laying on the stone pathways and talking with the flowers. This morning was like many others, and I was scratching the top of the soil between a large sage plant and a rosemary bush. They were just large enough that there was a space open in the soil in between, and I liked to see what kind of life I could find underneath them. Some days it was simply gnats and spiders, others days I would hit the jackpot and find a worm or two.
By Jami Larson4 years ago in Fiction
Marigold Letters
Marigolds remind me of sunset, and sunsets ain't no good to go on thinking about. But there they are, your "little gift", waving through my window. Remember the flower box? It's still right there, hanging on that evergreen outside our bedroom window, just outside of my stubby reach. It's blooming well enough, despite my neglect. I have neither the long limbs to reach that box, nor the stomach to lean out that far, nor the inclination to care. I can imagine you caring, imagine you leaning out the window again, your lean frame balanced half-inside, half-out like some crazy stork with a water-can, your whistling work-tune never breaking. I can almost hear it, even now...
By Christopher Fin4 years ago in Fiction
Marisol's Story
In Mexican culture marigolds are planted around altars for Dia de los Muertos, the day of the dead celebrations. The marigolds magic is that its scent and beautiful bright color attract souls back from the land of the dead. It’s for this reason that Marisol had a bouquet of marigolds on her desk at work. She hoped that her deceased beau would return to help her find another partner. So far, it hadn’t worked. It had been four years and Marisol wasn’t even sure if she was ready to fall in love again.
By Danya White4 years ago in Fiction
