literature

Whether written centuries ago or just last year, literary couples show that love is timeless.

Thirsty Work
Austin entertained the thought of death as the plane angled up for a steep ascent. It churned his stomach, and he gave into self-pity.
By Larissa Huang5 years ago in Humans
A Great Adventure
“Thud!”, “I’m running away, and never coming back!”, Jack yelled vexedly from his room. He had just gotten in an argument with his mom about where he could, and couldn't go. Jack wrapped his swiss army knife, a pencil, a black notebook, and his teddy bear in a red blanket, tied it to a stick, and set off.
By Sarah Feldkamp5 years ago in Humans
The Beginning of Ben and Maria
From the first moment, Ben was awestruck. Since the age of 15, he had begun to keep a strange Little Black Book of what he someday desired in a wife. Not a book of “big goals”, but a book of little details that had simply been thoughts, that he would sketch down over time. Then in this one moment, all those thoughts and sketches began to become reality on this warm January Eve.
By Clark B Mitchell 5 years ago in Humans
Lost
In a picture perfect era I’m wondering why I don’t wonder more. Why I shy off from doing my part in this life? Why I bounce from love to love to love to love? Not because I necessarily have the options to hop around like that but because I’m trying to find the best most suitable lover to me where he’s protective, obsessive, clingy, and believes in sharing the roles in a relationship. With my wind of insecurities I hold on to the idea of someone. Someone I may have let go of too many times and now I’m on my own again. I shouldn’t be allowed to drag people down no matter what I’m going through or for how much they do love me. I shouldn’t be held in a corner where they are ‘supposed’ to ask how I am when I was probably already in a state that everybody seems to ignore because since it’s not them they flat out just do not care. I bring this up but it won’t change a thing. Or at least it won’t change the right things. Which upsets me and makes me question if I’m doing all of this for nothing? In ways I don’t want the truth to that answer. Like at all. It’s paining that these existences cause so much in problematic ways of showing experience towards those that need to keep in touch with us. But why must I forgive somebody for tormenting my life to bad, horrible, pitchy extents? They are not sorry nor remorseful for anything they’ve put me through and it’s just sad. Sad that I could ever believe in this type of involvement.
By Keanna Barry 5 years ago in Humans
Anamnesis
Her hands were beginning to shake as she looked down at the small black notebook placed before her. It laid there unopen, its spine was creased and deep lines were beginning to crack along its centre. Beside it, a single grey pen shared the otherwise empty desk. The window directly behind the desk let in streaks of purple twilight through the spaces between the dusty blinds, gently lighting up the small study with the fading memory of a bright autumn’s day. The lady sat upon a mahogany chair with only a stiff cushion for support, its original colour had faded beyond recognition. She drew in a pained breath and gingerly pulled herself towards the desk before placing her shaking hand over the pen, and then leaned back into the few creaky splat rails that remained on the seat. Her gaze never left the notebook as an excitement began to grow within her at the idea of opening it for the first time and putting her pen to paper, anxiously awaiting the words that would begin to flow from her mind and onto the pages. The notebook would be her portal to limitless possibilities; in it she could write her hopes and dreams, her most secret thoughts; she could be pensive or careless, explore new ideas, justify her beliefs or simply jot down words without aim. Above all, here she would find something that would finally understand her, and see clarity in her thoughts. The anticipation was becoming too much, the lady slowly wrapped her fingers around the pen, grasping it awkwardly, and with her other hand placed her thumb on the edge of the cover, ready to dive into the notebook’s crisp paper and unleash its fragrance of almond and vanilla. As she was about to flip onto the first page, the lady paused and observed her pale hand slightly hovering over the coal black cover. The hand was thin, its pearly white skin was taught over skeletal fingers. The lady studied it in shock; dark blue veins rose and fell over its bony ridges, and countless brown spots dotted its wrinkled back. Nervously she turned her eyes to the other hand only to see the same image. Fear and confusion gnawed at the back of her mind, and her heart began to pound as her breath quickened. She could feel a familiar anxiety growing; her eyes began to dart back and forth, when finally they looked past her hands and fell back towards the notebook. A calmness slowly returned as she saw its blackened leather, and her breathing slowed. She became excited at the idea of opening up its cover, wanting to revel in the freshness of its pages and then to simply write.
By Samuel Good5 years ago in Humans
Maeve's Beautiful Mornings
Maeve felt the cool of the morning penetrate the thick downy jacket she wore and her jeans did even less to keep her warm. She thought back to a moment similar to this nearly a year ago. The fresh morning air had a different effect on her then and she reflected on the irony that while she was poorer she was also warmer, better prepared for the cold. Maeve was less accustomed to the bitter dawn having lived within the four walls of a house for the last 11 months rather than the substandard shelter of an alley or a shop front. She remembered the day that had changed her life entirely.
By Liv Field5 years ago in Humans
Back to the Ocean
Windows are dangerous. I mean there is the obvious bit about falling out, but I mean daydreaming. I cannot focus to save my life. I seem lost. So lost, that I can’t even tell if I am or not. Maybe I just need to get used to my new surroundings rather than dreaming about something more. This line of thinking makes me think of my mother. She was a dreamer, much like her own mother; our family legacy being melancholy.
By Taylor Ryan5 years ago in Humans
Lady Red
Good morning HISOKA, the time is 8:00 am. Your train on the ORANGE LINE will be arriving in ten minutes. Your shift at PAN-GROUND COMMUNICATIONS will start at 9:00 am. You have a meeting scheduled with the REGIONAL DIRECTOR at 9:30am…
By Derrick L.5 years ago in Humans
Art Escape
One of the first English idioms I learned was about losing oneself in a work of art. I spoke many languages as a child but it was only after I’d immigrated to the States that I began to understand the odd little sayings. However, I doubt being literally trapped inside my own piece of art is what the colloquialism was meant to convey.
By JBailey5 years ago in Humans
Reminiscence
My skin cracked as I traversed for hours across unbroken fields of sand, dirt, and loneliness. The sun, unforgiving and indiscriminate, left me blind, teetering, and at the brink of dehydration. My visibility was only a few feet ahead of me in short blinks before being blinded by the brightness of noonday.
By Alex Penuelas5 years ago in Humans
The Final Cut
The Final Cut Born William Joseph Crawford but known from his first year as Billy Joe, he was a handsome boy, taller than his classmates and always running around.
By Robert Taylor5 years ago in Humans
The Count
The universe is vast and amongst its vastness, are many different people. Of the people that live in this vast universe, in planets that stretch as far as one can imagine, there is one man who has piqued the interest of the public continuously, The Count. The term man is limiting for The Count because for the last two centuries his life has touched the universe, shrouded in complete mystery. No one knows anything about The Count, which is the one thing that everyone knows.
By James Rothrock5 years ago in Humans