literature
Whether written centuries ago or just last year, literary couples show that love is timeless.
The Eternity of the Sea
I wake up to the siren song of the sea, that damp salty mistress shoving her low tide funk up my nose. There is no ignoring the summons of the sea and the man next to me won’t notice if I go, he doesn’t notice when I stay so really it shouldn’t make a difference. I acknowledge that this is probably a bad sign as I shove myself into jeans that are getting a little too tight and throw on a hoodie to fend off the damp chill waiting for me outside. I ease the screen door shut so it doesn’t slam and walk down the short drive of our apartment building to the cobbled street below. I turn right sharply and start up the incline to the main square, my hips rolling with each step and the empty feeling I started my morning with is reflected in the streets, too early on a Saturday for the shop owners and tourists to be out. I make my way through the open plaza of what is considered downtown in this tiny seaside port, past closed shops with their window displays slightly fogged up with moisture, showing off everything from clothing to local art. This is one of the things I love about this little slice of paradise, you never know what you’ll find in the shops, the wares shifting and changing weekly. Turning down one of the branching side streets I make my way to the quay on the edge of a park lined with large oak trees, their thick arms spreading and reaching toward the sky as if to tickle the stars, long since snuffed out in the early morning gloom.
By Abigail Cooke5 years ago in Humans
Like Dust
Marco walked in the shadow of twisted shapes of steel. He paid no attention to them or the ruins right at his side. Instead, he only counted his footsteps. He grew lean after the end. He was once a fat financial tycoon who counted in thousands and millions. Now he counted one step at a time. And then events to which he payed no attention became a global catastrophe. In what seemed like a matter of hours he was cast from a life of luxury into one of impoverished solitude. Now he struggled to live.
By Gabriel Vera5 years ago in Humans
Betty Doll
It was safest to look for cans after three in the afternoon. In the big dumpsters, anyway. Some restaurants were lazy enough to toss the cans from a busy lunch service, workers in offices discarded their empty boosts of caffeine, and at the bottom was a layer of morning trash bags taken out by folks rushing to work. If Beatrice stayed away from the blue recycling bins, nobody shouted at her, mostly.
By Lorelei Armstrong5 years ago in Humans
Cracking the Code
Cracking the Code by Steven R. Struthers Jacques Bissonet was finding life to be rather agreeable, particularly on this warm and sunny spring day. He was sitting outside a cafe in Lyons, the city of his birth, and drinking a glass of Veuve Cliquot, his favorite wine. Things were going well; he had no worries, and his bank account, while not exactly flush with cash, was in a healthy state.
By Steve Struthers5 years ago in Humans
Nervous Ambition
The washed gray hardwood floor of my studio apartment was sticky to the touch. The whole space reeked of something nasty. I looked down to my feet and saw that a mysterious juice had been leaking from my trash bin. How this got all over the floor was the bigger mystery. All I could see were shiny footprints from where I had stepped. “This is disgusting.” I grimaced as I tied the black bag up. With each tug, the waft of rancid leftovers creeped up my nose. The smell tickled my nostrils, and my nose gave a vigorous wiggle. The wiggle moved up to my cheeks, then my eyes, and eventually my eyebrows gave a shimmy. To be honest, I should’ve been used to this little dance, I always left it too late to take the trash out.
By Internet Proverb5 years ago in Humans
Ghosted by Bigfoot
I guess Bigfoot isn’t going to call me back. I put down the branch after three more solid swings against the tree – TAK! TAK! TAK! – and even though it’s the third set I've done it’s still way louder than I expect for wet wood striking wet wood. I sit back down on the rock, check my watch, and wait some more anyway. Cold Oregon rain taps on the hood of my insulated parka, gentle but insistent, reminding me that I am a very long way from the cozy little lodge I’ve rented for this jaunt. The last leg of my great American cryptid tour. I sip some coffee from my thermos and get comfortable, or as comfortable as you can when you’re sitting on a rock getting steadily rained on in the middle of the woods.
By Ben Whitelake5 years ago in Humans
Lottie
Lottie waited in the hallway with her class. School was about to start. She looked down at her smock. The number 7 in raised stitching was expertly placed. She rubbed her thumb over the threads. It was her desk number, her food hatch locker number and her assigned workbox ID. It was an intimidating number for her- two strokes that connected with an assertion she felt she didn’t have. She preferred the look of 6 or 8. Both looked like they were in the middle of a beautiful dream. But 7 was her.
By Katanya Jaunitis5 years ago in Humans
