Love
Childers Grove
I stood atop of the bluff above the sea. The mist rolled off the ocean mixing with the smoke from the wildfires. None of the rays from the setting sun seemed to penetrate its wall. The sky was turning an eerie orange. What should’ve been a hot August evening was growing cold and a chill set in on my skin as I watched the mist and smoke curling.
By Stephanie L. Moreau6 months ago in Fiction
Water Trails. Winner in Leave the Light On Challenge.
The wind whispers to itself, playing along the old boards of a lone farmhouse, seeking a gap where it can creep inside. Moonlight falls in muted beams, casting shadows long across the bikes and toys scattered through the yard. Reaching further, it moves into the fields of corn, long ears bowed and sorrowful. Finally, it pierces through the clouds to cover a solitary cross embedded in the dirt beneath a tree-swing, the white gleam chasing away the dark. Swaying silently in the uneven breeze, the swing lurches, while the branches above stretch and scrape the milky sky.
By Joe O’Connor6 months ago in Fiction
The Night We Were Taken Aboard
“HELLFIRE AND BRIMSTONE!” Pastor Bartley slammed his fists down on the pulpit. As he bellowed, the organist, an elderly man who was hard of hearing, answered with the same ferocity. He shoved his fingers down on the keys as hard as he could and his feet jabbed at the pedals. Chords, about a half dozen or so, intended to instill dread in the soul, filled the space. The whole congregation was jarred from their stupor. If anyone had fallen asleep, they sure as hell were not asleep anymore.
By Rae Fairchild (MRB)6 months ago in Fiction
The Root That Wouldn’t Die
They dug the hole as if they were burying a villain. Shovels bit into damp earth, mud clung to boots, and the air smelled of rain-soaked leaves. Three neighbors stood over the stubborn stump in my grandmother’s yard, muttering curses under their breath.
By Hamayun Khan6 months ago in Fiction
The Last Lightkeeper
The sea had a voice. Not the gentle hum of waves lapping against the shore, but a deep, endless murmur — the kind you felt in your bones long before you heard it in your ears. Elijah Crane knew that voice better than his own heartbeat. For forty years, he had listened to it through fog, through storms, through nights so black the horizon dissolved into nothing.
By Hanif Ullah 6 months ago in Fiction
Postcards from the End of the World
The news had been counting down for weeks. Forty-two days until the asteroid made landfall, the scientists said, give or take a few hours. People coped in their own ways—some fled inland, some held rooftop parties, some barricaded themselves in basements stocked with years of canned beans. I chose to do what I’d always done when life made no sense: pour myself a coffee, sit by the window, and watch the mailman shuffle down the street. It was on one of those mornings, with thirty-nine days left, that the first postcard arrived. The handwriting was hers.
By Musawir Shah6 months ago in Fiction
