Inspiration
Phoenix Rising: Maya's Inspiring Transformation
Maya's cycle began in a previously remarkable neighborhood where burden and desperation entered the air she free. Brought by her grandma up in the midst of the reverberations of setback and yearning, Maya figured out an alright procedure for checking out at life's lopsided scene with a power that bended her delicate years. Notwithstanding her family had cleared out this world rapidly, their memory held up inside Maya's heart, a straightening out light in the midst of the lack of definition that took the necessary steps to overwhelm her.
By Kyrol Mojikal2 years ago in Writers
I Was Robbed In Tower City. Content Warning.
I was robbed yesterday morning at 5:00 am on the dote apparently in the investigation Detective Don has done. I was craving a banana nut muffin, and coca cola. When I think about a government section Social Worker job something I am degree seeking my thoughts are naive. I dreaded writing this article because it feels like I am exposing feelings I don't know if I'm ready to share. I wish I could forget this I really do. I thought by speaking to my mother in-law it would help me feel not so victimized it was opposite. Something else to deal with in therapy I should share the city of Cleveland for my emotional scars. But what would that do? I thought I wanted justice. But what would that do? I want my life back I want to not feel like a victim. I want to stop feeling like shit.
By Emily Curry (Rising Phoenix)2 years ago in Writers
5 Questions Writers Ask Themselves When They Want To Quit. Top Story - February 2024.
In every writer's journey comes the moment when the doubt creeps in and the desire to quit becomes stronger than the words of our supporters telling us to hang in there a little bit longer. We start asking ourselves questions about not only our writing but ourselves.
By Elise L. Blake2 years ago in Writers
In the lost stance of life. Top Story - February 2024.
In the lost stance of life Nothingness is the land where my thoughts belong a little too often. The art of wandering in the lost ocean of opportunities while creating the dreams I want to stride upon is the skill I have mastered in the ride of life. Stirred by the beacon of hope in the cup of blossoming hot coffee, I decided to write a tale of victory over defeat, a tale of joy triumphing over the sadness and atrocity of darkness. But as I walk upon this journey called life, the menace of time plonks and plunges me into the blindsided trance of nothingness. Our dreams are often shunned by externality as we are deemed delusional in uproars. Often it becomes our fuel as we turn the bitterness of words into the ounces of grit and determination that propel us forward.
By Hridya Sharma2 years ago in Writers
Canvas of the Heart
There happened with a lady by the name of Emma at some point in the far off past, in a tranquil local area away from the uproar. She was a typical individual who explored life's intriguing turns with the artfulness of a fastidiously pre-arranged explorer. Each part of Emma's story was isolated by laughs, tears, and snapshots of quiet reflection, similar to the pages of an old book.
By Kyrol Mojikal2 years ago in Writers
Advice From The World's Most Successful Writer
I will start this article off with the preface that the world's most successful author is subjective. When you take to the internet to find the answer it tells you Shakespeare, but since he did not set out to be an author and as revenge for the number of times I had to read his plays while completing first my English degree and then my Creative Writing degree - I'm excluding him based on the simple fact that I can.
By Elise L. Blake2 years ago in Writers
Cold mid nights of winter
The cold midnights of the freezing winter when the glacial gusts bellows around to ice the cores of flesh and bones. Amidst the blank scene is the whispering breeze and falling flakes of snow. The bleak mid nights with a slit of shine from the distant skies. Twanging of the leaves on the brisk branches of erect trees. The lands laminated by stratified sheets of snow fudging the way through.Bedside the fire and a smoking chimney squats an old lady into a sofa, reading the words from a book's frame.Shivering windows pleading refuge from the racking cold.Knocking and then the only light when the old lady opened her door to a gallivant. In the Chills the heart hasn't yet set cold.
By Assat Ahmed2 years ago in Writers
