Microfiction
Safe… secure… serene
Monday: 11:58 pm… Wonderfully weightless — I find myself wafting on the airwaves — slowly sinking lower — ever closer to the ground. I’m a feather, floating freely — to and fro — until I’m almost brushing the treetops. A few gentle sculling strokes of my arms, effortlessly propel me swiftly skywards. In moments, my supine body is once again above the slumbering world below… a balmy breeze caresses my upturned face. The dazzling diamonds of The Southern Cross constellation reassuringly smile down at me.
By Angie the Archivist 📚🪶2 years ago in Fiction
#171 — Juneteenth Betweenth a Rock and a Hard Place
An unkown white WWI soldier was in Bell County, Texas, when an African American man joined him. A second white man, in rags, waved. His head bandaged, he wore a moth-eaten blue coat with white trimmings indicating his artillery regiment.
By Gerard DiLeo2 years ago in Fiction
One Lazy Sunday. Content Warning.
The late Sunday afternoon sun was bright and warm. Her blue eyes looked glassy and staring, honey-coloured hair full of sunshine. She was turned slightly towards him, her right hip rising up out of the grass and feet stretched out towards the brook. The boy sat beside her facing it, knees bent, arms resting across them. A cigarette hung between his fingers.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
I Should Have Kept Them Open
I live in a strange simplicity, a cycle that seems to never end. When I open my eyes, there is only darkness. It encloses me, keeps me here, living in stale, still air; it is how I live. When I close my eyes, I see the same thing: a white silken fabric inches from my face; it is the only thing I dream of. When I touch it, there is comfort from a familiarity that I can't explain; it is the only thing I am able to feel. Other times, as sweat runs down my skin, I dream of the beautiful silk soaked in blood that drips and drips and drips.
By K. Kocheryan2 years ago in Fiction
Is Revival Always Good?
Hampson was a quaint village in the heart of eastern Maine, far from the hustle and bustle of economic activity and tourism that created enthusiasm for residents. "You can't get there from here" is a popular phrase among Mainers everywhere, but it was especially true of Hampson. It didn't seem to be connected to anything. However, it was just large enough to have an elementary and middle school, and whatever social activities could be found in the town happened there.
By Mack D. Ames2 years ago in Fiction
