Microfiction
The Green Door
The person did not go back to the secret room for a while for there were too many others that were roaming around the door. She did not want anyone for the time being to know that she knew that the room was there. She wondered who did live there at one time and seems to visit every once in a while, to tidy things up for the girl never seems to notice anyone from the staff going in that general direction maybe they use that back entrance to do their cleaning duties. Maybe I should ask around but not in a conspicuous way. Who should I ask first?
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Room part three
In this room there are many options that one may take. One way could be to just repaint the walls a white or grayish color or as if it was a child that created the partial image still on the wall for there must have been a reason for it. For what is there for to me it is a garden view for there is lattice and leaves. The plant on the windowsill to the left looks to me like the leaves on the wall. What could this mean? Whoever designed this is one very creative person adult or child.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Lonely
Lonely. Was the only word I felt as I sat here on my picnic blanket. The autumn breeze does a waltz with my loose curls. My jean jacket hugging me where human arms should be. The faint sound of a dog toyed with my ear drums as my lips moistened on the thought of another bite of cake. My voice mute to the area around me but in my head many voices crashed together. My eyes told my brain it was wrong I wasn’t lonely or alone. Sitting in front of me was a figure, of a man so far removed it’s as if I were on this picnic by myself. So while there weren’t others frolicking around me or happy dogs playing fetch in sight. I wasn’t in a crowd…maybe a crowd of two. But the silence was loud. I never felt more alone.
By Simone Marieabout a year ago in Fiction
Man Is Not Truly One, But Truly Two
What’s the measure of a man? A cloud of cigarette smoke engulfs the painting before him. It’s a masterpiece, surely—the painting, not the smoke cloud. The lines? Perfect. The technique? Masterful yet subtly innovative. Never jarring, it’s a piece that can be admired by both laymen gawkers behind a velvet rope, and crusty professors hanging onto their thesis as it gets iterated to irrelevance.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
