literature
Whether written centuries ago or just last year, literary couples show that love is timeless.
The Book
He held the package suspiciously. The brown tattered bundle neatly folded into a rectangle. One lone string strapping the edges down. The previous owner taking great care in wrapping the package, despite the reused and crumpled brown paper bag. He held it with both hands, not heavy, but felt solid. The return address showed foreign characters with the stamp “international” shining bright red against the dingy brown.
By Heidi Gifford5 years ago in Humans
A Place for Magic
In the hazy blue light of dawn on a cool morning, there was calm. She breathed in deeply with her eyes closed. These precious early moments of the day felt like her alone time with the city. These moments - before throngs of people emerged from their apartments seeking transportation and jobs and coffee and human connection in a world that feels increasingly isolated. Right now there was no mayhem - only the stirrings of others mad enough to start their day at the crack of dawn and brace themselves for the hustle.
By Sarah Gavin5 years ago in Humans
The Valuable Family
Agnes, sitting alone at a small table outside a cafe, placed her hand protectively over her jacket pocket, feeling the outline of its contents. Agnes’ hand paused for several moments while she reassured herself the contents therein were safe. A few moments later Agnes looked up at the sign above the cafe entrance, the words Le Roche Dure Cafe seemingly evoking a wistful smile.
By Thomas O'Brien5 years ago in Humans
My Gift To You
Imagine this… You were walking down the street to your favorite coffee shop. As you are about to enter, a man stops you with a light tap on the shoulder. He gives you a book and says, “Miss you dropped this.” He then proceeds to hand you a little black book.
By K.J.George5 years ago in Humans
The Damned Chickens
I didn't begin college until my mid-30's. I knew absolutely nothing about poetry, other than I hated it. Of course, the final essay for my English Lit class in 1997 was to write a poem based on some aspect of the Carlos Williams poem, The Red Wheelbarrow. Oh, it was also supposed to be written in the form of Schuster's Handbook. So, I did what I sometimes due best - procrastinate. Then, the night before it was due, I got drunk. And I wrote my final essay. So, here it goes....
By Diana Lewis5 years ago in Humans
Little Black Book
It was just a normal Saturday morning at Palm Beach this particular day. I love waking up on Saturday mornings, feeling the ocean breeze flutter in from the beach. I love looking out at the emerald green blue waters splashing onto the shore of white sand. The colours are mesmerising. I get the opportunity on the weekends to really enjoy where I live and to embrace nature. There are some days if I gaze out to sea for long enough, I catch a glimpse some dolphins rejoicing in the warm waters filled with plenty of shiny fish for them to eat. It really is magnificent how nature is peaceful, yet it can be at times violent, yet somehow feeling at one with nature is something humans crave. This day, I took a wonderful morning walk up the beach with the sand squeaking between my toes. It was getting breezy, and in an instant my straw hat blew off, and the wind was running away with my hat like it was a small child with a kite! It blew up the beach and then twirled to land in some grasses in the sand dunes. Sand dunes are magnificent how they move and shape with the coastal breezes. The hat settled and waited for me to come retrieve it. Just as I was picking up my hat, I saw a piece of plastic bag peeking out of the sand. It disgusts me how people throw plastic away like that. I love my beach, so I always pick up any trash I see. I began to pull the plastic out of the sand, but it was really wedged in under the sand. After a little bit of digging, out popped the bag filled with some rubbish. Gross! I suddenly felt my adrenaline surge, my temples throbbing, my heart starting to race. I suddenly forgot the beauty before me. Was I being watched? Was it a booby trap? Is it fake? I mean who buries $20,000 in a sand dune? Oh my I felt giddy, I squashed the money inside my hat, and very quickly dashed home. It was real money after I examined it further. I counted it, it was $20,000. Do I keep it? Return it to the sand dunes? Hand it to the police? Post it on Facebook? Or does it become my dirty little secret? After all, I do need a little financial security. I do not think anyone saw me in those dunes. I wasn’t followed. I dashed to my bedroom, tucked the money into my old shoebox with valuables. I went to my bedside table, I swallowed hard, pulled open the bottom drawer, and dusted off my little black book. My little black book of dirty little secrets. I had to write this one down. I returned the book to its seedy position in the bottom drawer, and closed it with shameful glee. My Saturday was definitely not a normal one. Not at all. It was a day to remember. I think I will wear my clever hat again! Oh I love the beach!
By Louisa korschenko5 years ago in Humans
The envelope
"Come on," Chloe thought to herself. "Just a little bit further." She pushed herself. "Ten more steps. Five more steps. Just make it to that tree up there." She finally stopped, breathing hard at the tree that had been her goal. She hated running, but she needed something to help her de-stress and take her mind off everything that was going on in her life.
By Julia Kazar5 years ago in Humans
Flower Girl
She awoke early, slipping out from under her thin blanket to pick up her robe, shivering. Groping in the dark, she pulled the light cord over the sink, throwing the tiny bathroom with its peeling paint into bold relief. Turning the faucet with a squeak, waiting for the hot water to come up from the shuddering pipes, she gazed for a few seconds at her face under the swinging bulb, the shadows behind her shifting.
By Victoria Campbell5 years ago in Humans
Black Listed
The moon tucked its way into the sheet of night as the man watched it settle. He studied it every night while he stood on the corner of 7th Street and Conway Avenue. He leaned on his lamppost; it belonged to him for the past seven years. The light still smiled feebly as passersby hustled feverishly to their resting places. His acquaintance with the block was met with a semi-reverent nod from those who knew him. He understood the creative cracks in the sidewalk and the gossip they spilled. But this crack right here…this was where she left him. This was where she took the children and denounced the love she once proclaimed with undying passion. He was not at ‘til death they should part, but to her, he was already dead. This was now his story.
By Melanie Lightbourn-Rowe5 years ago in Humans
