literature
Best corporate culture and workplace literature to better your workplace experience. Journal's favorite stories.
Deltora
When I was a young boy, life was troublesome, marred with uncertainty and incomprehension. Life at home was full of conflict, which I would not be able to understand until decades later. School was something of a battleground, with merciless bullies, severe instructors, and a central desire to be a part of the background rather than caught in the crossfire. There wasn’t much I could do to escape from the difficulties of my reality. The only settings available to me were ones of tension and trepidation, with little space for solitude. Even my bedroom was shared with my big brother, who could be hostile.
By Michael Butler5 years ago in Journal
Journal Episode 3 - Writing
What a fortnight it has been here on vocal. My writing journey has accelerated. I have spent the last week working on my Dystopian Sci Fi short story ‘Earther, Banger, Scrubber.’ I began it in order to enter the Doomsday challenge, launching the Fiction Community.
By Kevin Mitchell5 years ago in Journal
Why Agatha, Amelia, and Russell?
Between the end of June and August 7th, 2019, I read fourteen Agatha Christie books. I did this because it somehow seemed imprudent to read only thirteen Agatha Christie books. Exact number aside, this glut was inspired by my finally deciding to listen to a biography of that greatest of mystery writers—which I had had sitting in my Audible library for at least a year (probably longer)—and realizing as I was doing so, that I had really only read two Agatha Christies in my life thus far. This seemed a terrible oversight. I think I am well on my way to correcting it.
By Caitlin Aston5 years ago in Journal
What writing means to me.
Writing is like therapy for me. I’m not someone who likes to talk for a very long time. Not because I don’t enjoy it but for the sole reason that it wears me out. I feel both exhausted and tired after talking for a long time. I realised early on that I loved to write and I still do. In fact, I feel I can articulate better through writing. It is my personal space where just me and my thoughts wander about without any interruption. I get this feeling of talking to another person when I write.
By Ann Mary Alexander5 years ago in Journal
Dystopian Story
It was the morning but with all the black clouds from the bombing the night before you could not tell. As I walk out of the bunker I could smell the sulfur from the bombs and gunfire. I was patrolling with my squad but we had to stay close to see each other while spending out to clear the area. The point man stopped us and waved for me to come up. “What is it?” I whispered. “Sir, there is a lady kneeling in our path,” he whispered back. “Is she a threat?” “No sir, but I can’t move.” I look at the lady and notice her beckoning me to her. I attempted to look away and turn around but couldn’t. I went to tell the point man to stand fast as I would check this out but my squad had disappeared as if I was all alone with this lady. I got confused and a little anxious as this was not normal and thought I had to be in a dream, a night terror from last nights bombings. Was I dead? I remember a monologue from Hamlet at the moment he was contemplating death, “To die, to sleep, oh what dreams may come…” I walked towards the lady as she kneel in front of me. I looked at her; she had black tears rolling down her face but it was not from the smoke in the air. Her face was pale white like a ghost. She was cloaked in a very dark robe and hard ebony black hair. When she looked up at me I could see there was no color in her iris. She spoke in a deep voice slowly pronouncing every word. “Take this locket. Be quick. The red in the heart must not fade.” As I took the red heart shape locket she disappeared as if she was never there. I heard in a far distance, “Sir, sir are you ok?” I felt someone pushing in my shoulder and even though I did not close my eye I found myself opening them as if I was asleep and I was laying on the ground with a red heart shaped locket in tightly gripped in my hand. I looked up from the ground and my point man was standing over me in the same spot I left him. I then looked in the direction the lady was standing and she was not there. “What happened?” I said breaking the silence. “Sir, you walked up to me and laid on the ground softly and went to sleep as we were patrolling so I stop everyone to check on you.” “What!? wait I walked to you after you stop and waved me to you.” I said angrily. “No sir, we were still moving. But sir, it was a good thing we stopped when we did, another bomb hit 100 meters in front of us. If we would have kept moving we would all be dead,” he said with fear in his voice. After he said that I remembered the locket as I looked at it the point man asked, “Was that in your hand the whole time sir?” I looked at it and then him and said, “No, the lady you stop to show me gave it to me.” When I looked back at him he look confused. “What lady sir?” “Don’t mess with me kid! You stop this patrol and pointed toward a lady in our path!” “No sir, I stop the patrol because you laid in front of it and closed your eyes.” He sounded even more scared. The locket started to feel warm and glow red. I walked toward the front of the patrol and it got hot so I took two steps back and it was warm again. I looked at my point man and the man in the back of the patrol. I signal for the man in the back to become the point man and lead us back toward the bunker. As the platoon of men I was leading headed back toward the bunker the heart blew redder and cooler to the touch. When we got back to where the bunker was we noticed the bunker was destroyed and the heart went dark and cold. A lady appeared. She was cloaked in the same black robe and all I could see was her ghost white irises. I looked around and all my men were dead. I was the only survivor. I feel to my knees crying and when I open them I was home in Arlington Cemetery kneeling next to my point man’s grave with a Purple Heart medal grasped in my hand.
By Paul Wilburn III5 years ago in Journal
The Storyteller and the Campfire
Right now, there is a pool on the roof of a school somewhere in the world. This is a pool no one has seen, nor has anyone been able to prove it is up there. Yet the pool is believed to be there, simply because someone told us it was there. See, someone told someone. Then someone told someone else and so on down the line. Now the seniors are excitedly telling the new kids the latest version of where the pool is and why no one has seen it.
By Oliver Kipp5 years ago in Journal
"Hear Me Out..."
“Hear me out…” Three simple words. A challenge, a tease, a temptation. I usually embed these three words within every pitch I make. These pitches blend in with the other blog posts that I make on a daily basis, yet they contain elevated levels of passion.
By Burgandi Rakoska5 years ago in Journal
My Pen
Can I Call Myself a Writer? Maybe Yes. Maybe No. Grammarly tells me that I am doing well within my nuances of language; But is that enough to say "Yes I am a writer" I believe I could call myself a wordsmith but is that the same as being identified as a writer?
By a.a.gallagher5 years ago in Journal
