Classical
Lucifer – The Son of Satan
Rohan was in a rush to go back to the house, so he called Uber to get there as quickly as possible. He was employed by a big corporation. He worked the night shift there for over six months. Rohan was content with his family, which included his wife, Kaveri, and their five-year-old kid.
BrandsanduPublished 2 years ago in FictionOut Damn'd Pox
As he did every evening, Mr. Edwards drained the kettle, doused the fire, swept the ashes, the hearth, the mantle. He barred the windows and stuffed the drafty cracks with oakum. He applied his make-up, pulled on his garter and hosiery, his kid gloves, and fixed the bustle of his dress. It was time to go to work.
Trevor CoppPublished 2 years ago in FictionA Special Day
God I loved days like this. It was dim in my apartment, the light subdued by the clouds that were letting loose a gentle rain. I hadn’t turned on the lights. Every morning I turned on every light, pulled back every curtain and filled the space with bright. But not today, this special day, this wonderful, wet day so foreign to California.
Cara LoftenPublished 2 years ago in FictionMarsyas Flayed
Marsyas Flayed Our pilgrimage from Phrygia to Mount Nysa is long, the Sun fierce as we move southerly. But anticipation of the god’s presence colors the mood and eases the walk. And what delightful company I have! My priestess Kybele—in fact a goddess, embodiment of the Great Mother—strides beside me. (Only when we pass by settlements does she climb into her chair to be carried, for the sake of appearance.)
Trevor Anthony McGregorPublished 2 years ago in FictionWho Created Flash Fiction?
Theophrastus Many believe Chekhov created the modern-day short story. But, I am referring to who created the "micro-story" later renamed as "flash fiction?"
Arlo HenningsPublished 3 years ago in FictionDairy-Girl
Part One - “Why does death appeal to you?" "I would say the same thing some people might say in response to why does life appeal to them: because of its potential. Don't you find it gripping: what might happen once these fleshy vessels cease to breathe? I speak not even of religious and biblical promises of an afterlife, rather quite reasonably of what could occur. Forget the white robes, empyrean light, let's think about this — why would one believe that the destruction of flesh leads to the destruction of mind?"
Oscar RichardPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Odyssey: The Powerful and Emotionally Flooded Father and Son Re-union
In the epic poem The Odyssey by Homer, Odysseus is presented as the main character, who desires to return to his home, Ithaca, where his wife and son are awaiting his return patiently even after twenty years of him missing. In book 16, line 193 the well-anticipated reunion between father and son is described by Homer in detail. Through the Homeric language in this passage, it is evident how everything Odysseus has been through was leading up to this beautiful reunion that holds great significance in the poem because, at the end of book 16, Telemachus and Odysseus plan their revenge against the suitors together to finally regain their well-deserved honor and glory.
Natalie G.Published 3 years ago in FictionDrink
When the first soldier came to taste Ana's wine, I asked my mother when the man would first hear of mine. "Patience, my beautiful daughter," he tells me. "Let the age of the wine, and it is rich, and be stronger than its oak tree." But the first soldier who tasted took my sister Ana, even though her wine was still young and sweet, perhaps because she liked that taste.
Beyond the Dark Water
ONE 1 Seventy-six year old Mike Taylor recognized Rusty’s grin before anything else. That same ear to ear toothy grin that could so annoy or endear. Punctuated by the loose lanky walk, where the feet never came close together. To walk a straight line would be out of the question. It was similar to Mike’s own walk, except less self-conscious. He was dressed in rather nice slacks, sports jacket, slip-on shoes. It was Rusty all right, Mike concluded in shock.
Charles TurnerPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Village
“Come now, Michael!” A flustered old woman, with a tart mouth and stern eye, chided her young charge. She came scurrying down the lane of the little one-way street of the village. Apparently never having been there before, she seemed to have lost her way, and rather than asking someone which way to go, seemed to take greater pleasure in scolding the little boy who followed her, at a safe distance. “We’d never be in this mess if it hadn’t been for you, you stupid boy. Come now! Hurry up!” She caught up her skirts and made a dash across the street, crossing to the other side, and impatiently beckoning to the boy, who was reluctant to cross.
Erica NicolayPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Old Bog
A man fell into the old bog and was never heard from again. The bog is also where there was a man the villagers called Mr. Toad. He resembled a toad, in many ways—he was a toad. He had the disposition of a gathering storm that lurked in his countenance whenever his ironed frown lines settled around his crooked, drooping mouth. He hardly spoke, and when he did, it was only to gurgle out a guttural, rhythmic croak of a note or two.
Erica NicolayPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Chase
It was with cool, quiet desperation that man in the dark overcoat deliberately approached the teaming swarm of angry gestapo. He still clenched the stub of a smoldering cigarette between his numb fingers, and blew the last bit of smoke through his nostrils with grim foreboding. The blond haired boy, who clung to his side, with his bloodstained nazi uniform, could scarcely disguise his terror while he glanced knowingly at that mad frenzy brutes as they tore past the two.
Erica NicolayPublished 3 years ago in Fiction