Microfiction
The Process of Art
Standing before the fresh canvas, he took out his sketchbook and brainstormed. While in art school, he was indebted to the professor’s prompts. Now, faced with the blank canvas stretched before him, he felt as empty and blank as the canvas. Groaning, he pushed and rolled his shoulders. Taking his sketchbook with him, he wandered the college art halls, wondering what prompts lay behind them. But none of those designs spoke to him. He switched from examining color expression and composition to patterns and design. Scruffling his hands through his hair, he felt uninspired. It had already been a couple of weeks since he finished anything noteworthy. How had he composed those pieces?
By S.N. Evans2 years ago in Fiction
Jam. Content Warning.
Introduction This is based on experiences I had driving on the M62 when I worked for Yorkshire Water in Bradford, and lived in Leyland. I always drove, but the journey was quite scary, but the views were great, except when we got hit by heavy snow.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 2 years ago in Fiction
True Love
AUTHOR'S NOTE: March 1 and Spring is in the air. Thus, this love story of true love. ______________________ She was the luckiest woman in the world, having her one true love. Her love was so certain, a luxury that even strong loves lack. She was also certain she was loved back.
By Gerard DiLeo2 years ago in Fiction
Anyone for Dennis?
"So, what're you saying?" "I'm saying you should ask her out!" "I don't know if I can do that." Matt looked at his friend, Dennis and shook his head. It had been years now since Dennis had dated and Matt was concerned that he was still on his own.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
Eternal Wanderer
Pausing, the haggard wanderer hooked his gnarled staff in the crook of his arm, pulling a hefty tome from his waist where it had been chained; he opened it, making a few marks. He did not have a pencil or pen; instead, he used the cracked fingernail of his index finger as a nib and his blood for ink. Once he completed the note, he closed the book and dropped it back to his side. There is no more time to pause as his feet automatically continue his trudge. Muttering to himself, he sings worship songs, prayers, and supplication to his God. Though he has no quarter or home, nowhere to knock the dust from his callused feet or rest his heavy head, he does know his God. The dense forests, high mountains, deep valleys, and seas pass all the same as he passes. As everything erodes, the wanderer remains.
By S.N. Evans2 years ago in Fiction
Starstruck
When I first laid eyes on him, I felt I had been shot through my chest with a silver, piercing, white hot arrow. He was something else. A miracle. I was enthralled yet weakened in my very bones at that thought of his chestnut brown eyes falling upon me.
By Melissa Ingoldsby2 years ago in Fiction
An Unintended Stop. Content Warning.
"Smoke! Mum, there's smoke!" "Okay, I see it." Janet tried to remain calm as she traversed a busy multiple lane motorway to safety, and could feel her jaw tightening as cars beeped and her engine grinded, fighting her all the way in its bid to break down.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
