literature
Whether written centuries ago or just last year, literary couples show that love is timeless.
Narcissi: A Woman Named After the Flower, Not the Man
The dull glow of the slop slid under the door. Narcissi and Amantha sat, looking at it. A little glow in the absolute black. Just enough to illuminate itself but nothing around it. Just enough to let you know it was there and when it was gone. It was the only light Narcissi had seen in five years. It dawned on her she didn’t even know where she was. Was she miles underground or were there trees and sunlight just through the back cement wall?
By danny glaza5 years ago in Humans
Making the Unreal Real
Introduction Henry met Eden for coffee to talk about a project he wanted to work on with her. A manuscript was shared in advance. He was trying to do something good but she was not interested. He asked her to write something with him but she said no. So nothing directly came of it. Later Henry would realize Eden was only an imaginary friend, if a friend at all. As far as their relationship would go, she might even have been an enemy. She would go on to hurt him and then disappear, never to be seen again, at least in the real world. Despite knowing it shouldn’t have mattered, Henry still only wanted Eden to like him. It was as if they were linked by some distant past that he couldn’t comprehend. As if only through working together they could undo damage done by their ancestors. Before she disappeared—and then even more so afterward—he would spend sleepless nights trying to understand this.
By Neil Greene5 years ago in Humans
The Best Little Bookstore in Brooklyn
The door unlocked with a click and Marjorie exhaled. A bright tone resounded above her head as she stepped from the already blazing sunshine to the safety of air conditioning. She meandered to the checkout area at the farthest corner; when designing the place, she envisioned customers entering and feeling at peace, not immediately bombarded with a line and clang of the cash register. Each detail was made so book-lovers would feel as at home here as she did. The length of the lines had dwindled over the years, and that charming clang had been replaced with the empty noiselessness of an iPad, but her bookstore remained as charming as ever. The perfect hidey-hole in the middle of Park Slope, if she did say so herself.
By Suzy Weller5 years ago in Humans
Stations of the Cross
“Que onda, niñita?” The boy isn't much older than Jorge. His face is handsome, still soft beneath the shadow of his first beard, but Lace has seen him passing pills and powder at the corners. She knows that behind his back there's a gun, the same way she knows that Los Zetas gave it to him.
By Laura Presley5 years ago in Humans
He's Losing Her Respect
She met him at a bar about a week ago… Tall, muscular, charming, confident… He was everything she could have asked for that night, especially when compared to the other men there. There was something about him that was different, almost as if he carried himself in a different way… A better way.
By Gabriel Mohr5 years ago in Humans
Left Hand, Write Hand
I had that dream again. You know the one. In the dream, I’m standing in the middle of a large, empty room. There’s nothing in it but a black lacquer table that’s lit from above, as though by a spotlight. On the table are two things: a small black notebook and a stack of thousand-dollar bills. Twenty of them. Every time. I know because I’ve counted. Over and over.
By T. Strange5 years ago in Humans
Lana
The sun rose at about 7:15-ish here in Milan. I usually get up when the sun starts to shine on my face and wake me from my slumber. From waking up I sat at my desk with a little black, leather-covered book sat in the center. I always feel the outside of it before I open it to write down the dreams I had the night before because it reminded me of my grandpa's old car seats. I have very fond memories of that car, especially when we used to go get Italian icees every summer. After I’ve finished writing in my journal I get on with my morning routine and before I head out I always grab a cup of coffee and two buttered croissants from this little shop down the block from my house. The man that works there, Tomeo, is my dad’s best friend. I always viewed him as my uncle even when we don’t have any blood relation to each other. He always had the AC on, but always complained about bills piling up. I used to tell myself that if he never complained about the bills, something wasn’t right and I am right about it most of the time. Then I head out to go meet up with my date at the grand canal in Venice. I knew that it would be a three-hour trip more or less to get there, but he was kinda cute so I didn’t mind as long as he didn’t. As I am sitting on the train, I put in my earbuds to block out any noise and also to listen to a new album that Jeremy Zucker had put out. He kind of reminded me of myself because of how hopelessly romantic I could be and emotionally attached, but maybe that’s only true when he writes music. After an hour goes by, I start to get impatient and so I look up to see how far we were when I saw a strange man sitting in front of me. He looked to be around my age and his face had a stripe of freckles, from one ear to the other. His glasses were round and gold and his eyes were light blue and dangerous. He was a skinny guy, but had veins all over his arms, and when I noticed that my heart began to pound. As he looked at me in a way that made me extremely uncomfortable he picked up a black book, identical to my black book. So then I pull my black book and I look at him, distraught, but his face continues to show no emotion and I don’t even think he noticed I grabbed the book. He starts to write into his book and asks me a question, “What is your favorite color?” I look at him confused, clueless even because he looked as if he wanted to kill me. I pressed my lips together to tell him beige was my favorite, but then he spoke again, “My favorite is beige, you know. I always thought that it went well with everything you know? Beige pants, blue shoes. Beige dress, red heels. To me, beige is the universal color.” He smiles as he finishes his thought. More importantly, did he just read my mind or is he my stalker? I shut down my preemptive thinking, crossed my legs, and said, “I was going to say the exact same thing, but just not in such a creepy way.” When I stopped talking I realized what I just said and immediately felt extremely embarrassed because it sounded too bitchy. He looked at me, furrowed his eyebrows, and chuckled, and said, “What about that was weird? Just a friendly conversation.” Before I speak I fix up to show that I am interested in this conversation, but I was too nervous to think straight. So then while smiling I say, “Yes, but you looked like you were going to kill me. A poor lady like me couldn’t defend herself.”
By James Jean Pierre5 years ago in Humans
Old Man Iscariot
The night air was crisp, and a cold fog was rolling in. Old man Iscariot could feel in his bones that a storm was coming. How big, he did not know. Looking to his right he could see that his wife was fast asleep, a gift his achy bones would not grant him. After adjusting his night cap, he lit the bedside oil lamp, slid on his slippers and tied his robe tight. Though he had to work for what he had, in all his years, he had never wanted for anything, except perhaps for children. Tonight, all he wished was that he could buy himself a little more warmth and younger bones.
By Carolyn Huff5 years ago in Humans
