Calling all Ernest Hemingways, Toni Morrisons, Stephen Kings, Octavia Butlers, and James Baldwins of the world - Fiction is the place for your stories to run wild.
For as long as I knew her, Mama seemed to have two sides to her: light and dark. The light version of Mama was happy, carefree, and affectionate. She helped me with my homework and we danced together in the kitchen to ABBA while baking lemon bread. She smelled like cinnamon and her eyes actually lit up when she smiled.
The house sinks into the earth, heavier now that she’s empty than she ever was when children scurried across her floors every morning. The newest piece of her is a sign nailed to the front door: “Condemned.”
After the divorce was finalized, my father embarked upon a glimmering, new phase of his life, one that barely accommodated me. Really, it was more of a crisis, the symptoms of which included: new appartments (always with the same hulking, black leather couches crowding the living room and perhaps, if I were lucky, an expired lunchable in the fridge), new girlfriends (young and overly-solicitous to me), new tattoos (traversing his abdomen and thighs with slightly alarming pictures I could not look at for very long), and new cars (flashy and roaring and unbearable to ride in). One weekend, he might pick me up in a new Beamer, the next, I would be bundled into the front seat of a baby blue Maserati.
Picasso and the Art of Grieving
Picasso and the Art of Grieving UNEXPECTED THINGS Funny how quickly life can change. When you least expect it, you’re faced with a ‘suddenly’. One day you’re in the middle of the Caribbean, working on a cruise ship as one of the dedicated production crew, and the next you’re helicoptered back to Miami for the flight back to Alpine Junction to attend your dad’s funeral.
Soup & Saltines
Lulu's eyes dart quickly around the convenience store, alighting briefly on each customer to see if they're looking her way. She sees a teen girl with a fussy baby on her hip, frowning as she looks at the meager selection of diapers. An old man is lifting a case of beer from the cooler, whistling as he tucks it under his arm. In the next aisle, two boys around her age are picking out candy, laughing and shoving each other, dropping loud F-bombs that probably make them feel older and cooler than they are. She rolls her eyes, even though she thinks one of them is kind of cute.
The Night Conceals Me
I should be sleeping. I should definitely be sleeping. But thoughts are always loudest at night time. There is no background noise, no hums, no ticks, no tv's or radios, no chirps, chimes or jingles; no noise that can cover up the internal monologue as it screams from the chasm within. But the biggest thought, coming from some crevice near the front of my brain, I summised somehow, was that the alarm I had set only two hours earlier would be ringing loudly in only another four.
How I wish to fly Soundless
The darkness took hold of the walls, the ceilings, the motionless air lingering in front of my eyes. The blankets cuddled close to me, protecting me from whatever dangers lurked in the black room, whatever waits for my demise. The thought of a beast lashing out at my face any moment sent cold shivers down my spine. The feeling did not last long though, one moment my eyes were dashing across the empty space looking for any traces of a monster. Then in what felt like the blink of an eye, I was somewhere new.
The Fiery Canary
I saw you in my dreams…fiery canary. High in the sky with your friend at night. Seeing you was almost too good to be true. Way too good to be true. You were a true mystery, a mystery that has gone back for decades. Yet, I got to experience you in all your glory the moment I closed my eyes.
The Hollow Planet - part one
The sun peeking through her window cautioned Gwenn to get on schedule. She appreciated that she would be slightly late this morning, as it had become the norm for her on these troubled days. It was so much harder to be motivated anymore. Nevertheless, she, a tall, wiry, kid, gulped some orange juice, ate a bite off a bagel, then took up her backpack and left out the door. Gwenn was ready to challenge the world one more time.
“It’s late, Mario, let me go”. She threw herself out of the car, fumbled with the lock, for a moment the light illuminated the entrance hall. She wore a shirt that was a little big on her. He was impressed with the image of his thin shoulders disappearing into the door.
All that glitters is not gold, Jennifer repeated to herself over and over again. Her mantra! Months ago, Jennifer was head over heels in love.
The Return of the Night Owl
“It be the ones, the ones you love the-…Oh no!” She screamed. She was listening to “A Rose in Harlem,” a banger by Harlem’s Teyana Taylor when the box of cupcakes flew from her hands and landed on to the ground. She bent down to pick them up.
Dying To Love
Jamie remembers how she hated this sound of these ugly barn 0wls that would Woot All Night Long. As she reflects on all the drinks she had tonight. She lays in her most sacred place in her barn. She remembers the day she inherited her family's fortune. A memory of her family all being burned in the house fire crossed her mind! The thought of torcher and the pain they felt makes her choke up as she Gasp for air and tear up.
The trees pressed in around her in the dark evening light. An untrained ear could mistake the soft hum of the forest for silence, but Serena knew that with such a quiet there had to be something nearby that was keeping all other animals at bay.
To become an Owl
Growing up my father would tell me stories of old martial artists who used to roam the land. How they would study various animals and learn how to mimic their style of movement and adapt it to a human’s. In this they were not only able to become much fiercer fighters but it also allowed them to become one with the land. They not only understood the animals of nature but nature itself and the role that it played in their lives. There was one style in particular though that always caught my attention when my father would tell me about it. Owl style.
A Wistful Search for Spirit
“Amaris Chiltus. Amaris Felis.” Arista softly chanted, as she placed her golden snuffer atop the desperate dancing flame and stifled its last sip of oxygen. Her purple votive Abundance candle hinted scents of lavender, fir and morning chamomile and except for the wintery theme of her bedding you would have thought you found the actual scent of the color itself. She twisted her elongated labradorite ring to release its grip on her index finger and set it reverently on a stack of natural stone beaded bracelets that she kept on her bedroom vanity. Contently, she made her way toward her bed. Stopping a moment, she appreciated her lavish, faux-fur Snow Lynx bedding that she had found to enhance the winter season. It was complete with pillows of every shape and size for the geometrically minded, of which she was. Onward, she seemingly floated toward her bed and turned to take a seat at the edge of her mattress. Leaving her slippers at the edge of the sheepskin rug, she once more relished its plushness on the soles of her feet and, then lifted her knees up toward her chest. She glanced admiringly toward her vanity at her waist-high snowy pine tree, an expression of her own tastes. Embellishing her homage to nature, Arista chose a wispy, white feathered boa to cascade and spiral down the tree as well as a pompom snowball garland, both selected from the town’s craft shop. But tonight, she was especially drawn to the yellow, piercing eyes coming from beneath the frosted branches. They belonged to the mini-sized replica of a barn owl, and it closely resembled the one that frequented her own countryside property. She had chosen this little resemblance as it struck her peculiarly from a previous encounter, and every night its intense stare would stir and awe her spirit. Seemingly alive, but frozen still in the tree.
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