humanity
For better or for worse, relationships reveal the core of the human condition.
ORPHAN
That one little noun can bring on so many different images to one’s mind. Do you think of “Orphan Annie”? Do you think about children who are poor, hungry, and are covered in ratty clothes and dirt? Do you have pity in your heart for a child who has no parents? Cinderella, The Little Princess, Snow White, Oliver Twist, Peter Pan, etc. are all stories that have been told from generation to generation. Our hearts go out to these characters in the stories. We are drawn to their pain and want to help them, or we are angry at the villains who make their lives living hell. However, we rarely carry these same empathetic feelings to the real people in our lives.
By Neci Eppinette5 years ago in Humans
The Truth About Broken Things
The Fullston’s lived at No. 9 Chaddick Drive, just around the corner from the recruiting office. In the days following the bold black headlines of the Lusitania lines of men extended well past the front door. Their eyes all held different stories. Frightened or yearning for glory, and always perched above gray coats.
By Jordan Parkinson5 years ago in Humans
A Waltz In the Rain
Vivienne sat perfectly still as tears streamed silently down her face in tiny rivulets. She stared up at the pale half-moon through a hazy, partially opened bedroom window. Gone. Everything was gone now, save an ancient, defeated single chair upon which she sat, a twin mattress covered by thin, cheap sheets, and his stack of books cluttered in the corner. The only movement in the room came from some tattered window sheers that fluttered in the warm evening’s gentle breeze.
By Lisa Slodov5 years ago in Humans
Light, Dark, and Everything in Between
She had a collection of Alice in Wonderland books and still, at 25, dreamed of finding a secret garden. She never related to anyone dead or alive more than she did Sylvia Plath, a tragedy she both romanticized and despised. She was curious like Alice and longing like Sylvia. She loved excess, a minimalist she was not. Consider her a Marie Antoinette type (except with empathy,) a lover of celebrations and beautiful, material things. She was a Zelda Fitzgerald, a Virginia Woolf, and maybe even a little bit Holly GoLightly. She was sad and beautiful, intelligent and destructive, sensitive and stubborn. She was hopeful while also depressed. She was addicted to art, youth, beauty, and substances that both numbed and enlightened her. She was enthralled by the sea, felt most herself under the sun, and wanted to see the world. She was obsessed with Ernest Hemingway’s home in Key West and dreamed of having a home just like it, crawling with cats left and right. She was multifaceted, complicated, and passionate. She was an Aries, a creative, a dreamer.
By Kimberly O'Brien5 years ago in Humans
Book of Dreams
Book of Dreams It was an ordinary day just like any other. The crisp air fell in delicate swirls around the girl’s body, enveloping her in a frosty embrace. Her hair was held fast in tight red ribbons, her eyelashes decorated with tiny snowflakes. Oksana had been waiting patiently for the community bus to take her to class.
By Cicely Blackbird5 years ago in Humans
The Beaten Escape
How can the best thing to ever happen to you make you want to tear your brain out of your skull? How can my dreams finally coming true push me so far over the edge? I wanted to pull my hair out. I wanted my thoughts to quit racing ahead like an excited child at a zoo.
By Brian Rosen5 years ago in Humans
The Black Book of Cleveland, Ohio
When one is asked the ice-breaking morality evaluating question of: “Hey, What would you do with 20,000 dollars?” …They already know the answers they want to hear. Donate it to a charity! Pay off my parent’s mortgage! Start a business selling embezzled coat hangers on Etsy! This Sisyphean debate of what one could change with such a sum of wealth has never been an icebreaker I’ve indulged in, as I am not an avid ice-skater/ breaker or, in that regard, even speaker. I had always seen myself as one of those ice resurfacers that are driven by a no-name runner-up to the glittering ice-skaters who slice said ice with ease under disco-balls and stage-lights…what I’m trying to say is that I’m merely foliage in the grand jungle that is my work’s social sphere. I’m a nobody. I’m an ice resurfacer, to indulge in the metaphor.
By Holly Smith5 years ago in Humans
The Black Book
Angel sighed as she walked down the street. Her green eyes showed her exhaustion and her long black hair was soaked through. It had already been a long day for her and now she was stuck in the rain. She couldn't help but wish that there was something she could do to catch a break and get time off from her job.
By Robyn Whyard5 years ago in Humans
