Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Writers.
wonder
why don’t they teach us this in school? how to live with ourselves the same way other people can, to talk so much and so little about the same topic or to love them and tell them. We grow up believing we are strange and different if we aren’t like everyone else, that whoever or whatever is clawing inside can never come out because that would be too much for the world. Too “poetic” too “real” too “loud” or too “unrealistic” because whether we like it or not there will never be enough room for more than one interesting person in this god-forsaken world; but as the days get shorter and the pain lingers a little longer; where quiet yet sinful prayers sing and where the children learn to harmonise, somehow I start to wish. I wish I said all the things I was too scared to say and I wish I was kinder. I wish I took breaths slower and I wish I didn’t let it go that deep...How can you bear it? for it has ended me many times over, left me with scars as proof that I am paying for the sins I commit- yet I stay put. rotting away, so that when death stops by he doesn’t see much change, for I deserve what I get. I wonder what’s wrong with me... Tears spilling like a river from lonely, aged eyes, I pause and start to understand why the rain smells so peaceful before it falls, why people hide under store roofs from the blaring sun and how strangers look at each other with such love and understanding even though their name doesn't ring a bell. Some would say that this kind of humanity makes bones ache, and some call it poetry, simply words strung together to make the heart smile, that they roll on tongues and run off fingers smoother than water; others say it's pointless, and spend their time shielded away to heal their salt-covered wounds; but some understand. we are afraid of being stained with feelings, afraid of being stamped with the things going on inside of us because it makes us too vulnerable. emotions smeared in such a way that they describe the feelings we cannot yet say. I wonder what’s wrong with me… And with that, I sink into my own silence because the type of silence that absorbed the rest of the world was always a spoke the loudest. Boring days, an unknown future, and sore eyes make the days pass but nothing changes and no one learns. I wonder where I could've been if I lived in the moment more if I'd spent more mornings making bouquets out of the same flowers tired dads would mow away whilst wrinkling their noses at the weeds, and I wonder when the awe of the day to day faded away and when we stopped believing in our ability to make other people smile, for it is what we were made for; even in illness or in fear, we are made for each other. I wonder what’s wrong with me…I wonder I wonder I wonder…..
By frankie seven2 years ago in Writers
An Open Letter to a Girl Who Thought She Could Write.
Dear August-2016 Me, You think you can write. You probably have even admitted this belief out loud. A few days ago, I found a note from your Third Grade teacher, "You are going to be a great author one day!" All this is actually quite amusing.
By Carmel Kundai2 years ago in Writers
A Journey of Transformation: From Novice to Seasoned Storyteller
Every writer has a humble beginning, a starting point that marks the initiation of their creative journey. For me, it was the first piece I ever wrote, a simple composition that now stands as a testament to my growth as a storyteller. In this introspective piece, we will delve into the emotions, message, and essence of that initial creation and contrast it with my present-day style and perspective as a writer. Join me on this nostalgic journey of growth and rediscovery as we celebrate the art of storytelling.
By John Porfy2 years ago in Writers
Crimson Hands. Content Warning.
People just didn't get how hard it was. Her mother was dead. Her grandparents blamed her father. Her baby brother, who was supposed to be her one focal point in the figure skating routine that was her life, had gone to live with them. It had been five years since her life had changed, and everyone expected her to just move on already. They didn't understand. No one ever understands.
By Elsa Valdez2 years ago in Writers
Unlocking My Love
Welcome back! In the last entry, I had a taste of freelance creative writing, but spat it out because I had lacked the will to acquire the refine flavor of writing. It took a little over half a decade to develop a passion for the craft. During my senior year of high school, I knew I wanted to be a creative, freelance writer with the dream of publishing a novel.
By Iris Harris2 years ago in Writers
