Love

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
Yellow is my favorite color
"There is something about the smell of a cigar bar before the patrons start flooding through the doors," I thought to myself as I walked through the front door of Le Tabac Allume, a small cigar bar on the edge of the campus district in the center of town. The place had about ten tables, and a tiny, four seat bar by the small piano by the entrance to the humidor nestled in the back. I looked over at the tables, didn't see my wife, so I went to the humidor and picked out a nice Arturo Fuente, paid for it, and asked for a cutter. I neatly cut the end off, then carefully warmed the foot until the cigar was sufficiently hot enough to smoke.
By Jim Hale4 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
Intuition
On the second Saturday of the month, Harry and Divah sat beneath a tree. It was a sacred tree, to them at least, for they met there like this once a month. Divah did not know that today would be very different from the previous Saturdays during which they met; but the hair on Harry’s neck prickled up as a silence fell between them. He had something to tell her, but he just couldn’t spit it out.
By Brittany4 years ago in Fiction
Hues and You
Adriene was a flower at heart. A gloomy, inauspicious flower. They sat in a field of marigolds. Looking at one another as the yellow flowers looked upon them. They hadn’t met before, but there was a palpable chemistry, like there was a huge strand twisting across the space between them, connecting their gaze metaphysically. The sun was high, and in front of them. Depending on perspective, it lay perfectly central between them, beaming with vigour and blessing their side of the Earth with unmountable optimism.
By Will4 years ago in Fiction
Christmas Carols In July
“And a partridge in a pear treeeee…” Lil sings. Even though it is the middle of summer, she’s belting out her favorite Christmas carols with her five year old cousin. Why not.
By Kaiz 4 years ago in Fiction
Goddess
She was painted in the most florescent of colours but now they have vanished and left her naked in the tones of the colours shadows. The palette God used to create her would have made Claude Monet shed a tear. When she smiled, rays of colours from every end of the spectrum went running in every direction, looking for an untouched part of the canvas on which to leave a mark – and now the marks are indelible charcoal smudges.
By Peter Dennis4 years ago in Fiction
Michael
When I was fifteen, I found the man my mother was having an affair with. He was a Radio broadcaster named Michael. Each night, I'd listen to their hushed conversations on the telephone line like a bedtime story. I had never heard my mother sound so stricken, so full of life. She doted on him, loved him deeply, all in secret. I had never thought of my mother as particularly passionate about anything, but she was passionate about Michael. It was some education, I guessed. Even as I watched her do mundane things, like lay around the house, or polish our glassware, or mend my father’s pants, she displayed all the signs of rapture and sadness: Slightly slumped shoulders, loose hands, downcast gaze. All movements I would try on alone in my room, only to find they were useless on me, who had nobody to tie them to.
By Marie Song4 years ago in Fiction
Til' Death Do Us Part
The church bells rang, “Ah. If only that were me.” Violet sighed as she looked at the newly married bride and groom from the window.
By Tiffany Pham4 years ago in Fiction
Worlds Apart
A tear rolled down Linda's face as she stared out the window off into the distance. How could this be happening to her? Just a few months ago she'd been so head over heels in love. She still was, but it was all going wrong.
By Arrow Daytree4 years ago in Fiction
Enough Is Enough
I butchered the marigolds while weaving them into a garland for my daughter - Anju's wedding. Marigold garlands are my speciality. I was so good at this skill that I made them for my and everybody else's weddings. But for some reason, I was having a hard time making garlands for my daughter's most important milestone. My smart, beautiful lovely daughter was going to marry a guy eleven years older than her because she believed we - well, her father knew what was best for her. If it were up to me, I would have let her do what she wanted and what she was really good at - engineering in computer science. Her teacher at the school had said she had the potential to be a hotshot executive someday. And I knew Mrs. Banerjee - she was not one to boast idly. I looked around in the kitchen - there were signs everywhere of my daughter's tech skills - the smart home gadgets, the timer that sang 'You can bring me the food - mummy' in her voice instead of the shrill alarm. And most importantly, a male voice for Alexa - because she wanted to order around a male in the kitchen, much to her dad's chagrin.
By Anu Sundaram4 years ago in Fiction
Oh my god Jeffery
"I...what is... how has... what... what the hell is going on!?" I'm looking up at him, still covered in blood, but with no wounds to match. What can I even say? It's not something I can just explain as if he'll go "Oh ok, makes sense." This is, well, kind of serious. I pause for a moment, and without choosing my words too carefully say,
By Madeleine Taliai4 years ago in Fiction