Love

The Golden Shore
They met where their farms did, in a meadow of gold, dotted with dandelions and sprinkled with marigold blooms. Past the farthest ear of corn or stalk of wheat, the meadow hid. And on this meadow grew a spot where the earth bubbled but never broke. And on this hill grew the steadfast behemoth of branch and bark. And after their work was done, they would join together every day at the base of the sturdy oak on the hill. And they danced.
By Michael Oberschewen4 years ago in Fiction
Pieces of a Bouquet
Abby Forrester scrubs last night’s spaghetti off her white plate. She has a dishwasher, but she doesn’t think it gets dishes clean enough. She glanced at her Emerald-cut wedding band on a towel of the edge of the sink. It’s four o’clock- Masen will be home anytime. Abby and Mason have been married six years, but it still feels like perfection. Abby moves on to the glasses while singing “Have You Ever Seen the Rain” by Creedence Clearwater Revival when a bouquet of flowers gently whips in front of her face.
By Jessica Mathews4 years ago in Fiction
They All Mean Something
It was always a somber day when Dr. Death was in. He was a genial enough man, if a bit reserved. He always remembered the nurses’ names, asked about weekend plans as he signed in. He wasn’t much for conversation. He rarely made eye contact. He was a small, thin man, with a pall of solemnity. His clothes were always a size too big. He had thick-rimmed glasses and a high, shiny forehead, topped with thick but graying hair. His sneakers squeaked as he walked down the hospital hallways, announcing in a near comical way the decidedly un-comical man. He hunched slightly forward as though carrying the difficult years of his career physically on his back.
By Brett Lalli 4 years ago in Fiction
Branches of Silence
My favorite part of the day is observing the deep emotions of those who pass by me. Occasionally, I will be ever so lucky to witness one who understands the importance of stillness, one who takes the time to be my companion, even if just for a moment. I admire people, I really do - their creativity, their ambition, their eyes who have seen so much. However, I do not envy them. I was made with a purpose and I’m proud of who I am. I’m proud of the care I get to show people. My branches bring shade on bright summer afternoons; my leaves bring art projects to imaginative children; and my massive trunk brings protection to the delicate.
By Alex Kelly4 years ago in Fiction
A Partridge in a Pear Tree
Clarisse had no idea why she was thinking of him today. For that matter, she didn’t know why she’d kept tabs on him ever since they parted ways the summer he left for college. But she had.
By Randy Wayne Jellison-Knock4 years ago in Fiction
His White Rose
As Milo stood in front of the grey steps of her London townhouse, the thick curved lip of each step leading to the tall black door framed by two pillars, was a feature he always admired. It was a welcoming façade, despite it being somewhat unremarkable on that particular affluent street. Maybe it was because of who was behind the door of this particular property. He recalled for a moment how she would sometimes present herself as she opened the door, as though she was being revealed to the world as the stage curtain was withdrawn. But there was no crowd, it was just you, it was just for you. She had a smile and confidence that made you feel both welcomed and inspired. A quality every T.V host aspires to embody. After pressing the bell to her flat, Milo was tempted to take several steps back down the stairs to take his seat in the stalls as it were, to admire her entrance properly. All it took was a moment of hesitation for him to convince himself it was a silly thought, after all, they were just friends. Right on cue she opened the door and took the stage. Klara was what your stereotypical 90’s ‘wanker banker’ might stereotypically call ‘exotic’. However, in the purest sense of the word that’s exactly what she was. She was quintessentially English, her speech was as refined as her demeanor, you knew she was educated without her ever having to tell you. She was a part of the world that surrounded her, she knew the value of being ‘of good stock’ not just because you were born into it but because it was who you were, the values and responsibilities that came with that tradition, beyond airs and graces and any false sense of superiority. And yet, there was no mistaking the golden tanned skin, the dark brown eyes that curved as though drawn with a calligrapher’s brush, and straight dark brown hair that cupped her refined cheekbones and sat across her shoulder like an Indian headscarf. Her connection to another culture, to more than one, in fact, was clear to see. Which ones could easily be the final question of any pub quiz, it was hard to tell for even the most cultured eye, but her connection to that something other radiated from her with an unspoken presence. Like a sapphire found in the chambers of the Royal Palace, it at no point seems out of place and yet you know this gem was not discovered beneath any Stone Henge. That day in particular Karla was noticeably different, she seemed especially alive.
By Lexington4 years ago in Fiction
Cleaning Day
"Great," one more thing that needs my attention. She stopped in the kitchen, looked at the white sink full of dirty dishes, looked at the marbled countertops covered in old mail, then she looked at the deep blue kitchen table with purposeful mix-matched chairs, HGTV style, covered with dead petals. She began to question the existence of responsibility that piled before her. She wanted to clean, but she also wanted to embrace the few hours of solitude.
By Nicole Brown-Fordham4 years ago in Fiction
Geisha
You ask me “What is your favorite flower?” I pretend to hesitate. I want to give you the impression that I am carefully considering your question because I am aware that answering instantly might generate the appearance that I am not significantly interested in you or your question. I use the time to formulate my response to what I predict your next question will be, one which will require more work on my part to answer.
By P. D. Murray4 years ago in Fiction
Marvin and Leah
Marvin’s head drooped as he examined the perfectly manicured yellow and orange marigold in his hand. With a slow and gentle stroke, he ran his thumb and index finger down the stem. He inhaled, adjusted his posture, and looked straight ahead. In the pristine glass doors of Madison General Hospital, the reflection of an old, battered man with thick round-framed spectacles peered back at him. He had lived a long life, the wrinkles on his face a testament to the many seconds, days, and decades that had passed, but he’d never felt his age. There were the physical repercussions of gravity that he could not deny, like backaches and joint pain, but the fatigue of life that sometimes comes with age never seemed to affect him.
By Joseph DelFranco4 years ago in Fiction
The Raging Dream
The story starts in a phycologist’s office: John has been getting anxious over a dream he has been having for the past few days. John expresses that each time he falls asleep, a raging bull is running towards him. He says his entire dream involves him running away. The moment the bull catches up to him, we would wake up. He continues to add; he would wake up because the person he idolizes the most in the world would appear in front of him and scream, “wake up.” The phycologist asked him if anything occurred leading up to the dreams. John had expressed he has been under a lot of stress, and the only time he would relax is when he would sleep or his idol was doing something new. The phycologist says, “So you found something that allows you to take time for yourself, that’s good. Do you think that can help you overcome your stressors?” John smiles and says, “Yes, but at the same time, no. I am busy reading many scripts while working full time to provide for myself and my parents, who lost all their savings due to damages caused by a tornado to their home. I mentioned I took time for myself when my idol was doing something new; I did not mention, many times, I would seek that Zen when my stressors are at their peak. Still, when I return to reality, I guess you can say the raging bull returns.”
By Jessica A. Fox4 years ago in Fiction
Marigolds To Bring You Back
Did you know marigold flowers are said to attract the souls of the dead? I found that out on Google. I like to look up random facts to help me pass the time. Time moves so much slower now. Today when I went to Google my random fact I felt like maybe you were sending me a sign. Like you wanted me to find out about the marigolds and their true meaning.
By BriMichelle 4 years ago in Fiction
Marigolds and Clover
By a cruel twist of fate, the sun was shining and the birds were singing the day we laid Clover to rest. For the world, her death will have gone unheralded. No obituary would appear in the paper. Nobody would tweet how sorry they were to see her go or provide accolades of her accomplishments. No bard would sing of her feats, no epic saga of her adventures would be filmed, no Wikipedia article would be written about her life, and no queen would posthumously bestow upon her a ladyhood - if that’s the correct term. She was just gone, her life an insignificant blip on a radar, a true nobody in the history of the world.
By Phoebe Wilby4 years ago in Fiction