Microfiction
Her Darkest Life
It was a strange day, a bit warm during the day, but too cold during the night. Not knowing what day it is, what time it is, or what the month is. The sky is white. The ground is gray. The land used to be beautiful, glorious, and playful to all people. Days or even months went by, it turned into nothing but an empty, drastic wasteland. The crops and harvest had turned into dried twigs. The buildings and houses were covered in vines, roots, ashes, and heavy dust from the dirt. The walls and doors were rusted. The windows had been shattered and covered with dust. The roads and trails had crumbled.
By Meghan LeVaughn 4 years ago in Fiction
The Eleventh Hour
As Brently Mallard walked down the path to his home, he couldn't help but gaze at the "tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street a peddler was crying his wares." Brently began to sing. His voice was rich and melodic, wafting through the streets. The "countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves," harmonizing with his sweet song. He had been away from home for so long, too long... and it felt strange going down the pathway home. The freedom of being away was refreshing, and the space he had gotten had been desperately needed. However, Brently did miss Mrs. Mallard, somewhat anyway. He hoped that she was in satisfactory health and that all was well. Inhaling the fresh spring air, he couldn't avoid the cloudy thought of the symbolic drought that he knew he was walking towards.
By Rowan Finley 6 years ago in Fiction
