Classical
Well known Speeches: Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream"
I'm glad to get together with you today in what will stand out forever as the best show for opportunity throughout the entire existence of our country.
Mashud M AlfoyezPublished 2 years ago in FictionVision
Some other time the vision would return. Not this moment of course. That would just be silly. The clouds were forming on this indecent exposure. That was starting to develop. This time he was sure to catch it as it developed. Not at a passing fix. Shifting up and around the past. Aggravating the stitches in the remix. Running through the track of his mind he had to think of another way to voice his opinions. Buzzing forever and whatnot.
Alex JennettPublished 2 years ago in FictionThe Good Husband
Ten years, four months…ten years, four months. “Ten years, four months!” He grunted as he winced from the pain of his teeth grinding against his jaw. The dirty stained yellow cup with the white and blue pills stared emptily at him and he smiled wanly then grimaced. He wasn’t going to take them today! He shuddered as he remembered his nightmare from the night before of the zombies and monsters that clawed him as he slept. Or maybe he had imagined it all? He shook his head sadly as he wondered when he would be able to separate reality from the thoughts that brewed in his head. He chuckled quietly for he knew that he could no more discern and dissect the thoughts than he could swallow these here pills without gagging. He still gagged even after swallowing them for ten years.
Elizabeth CordesPublished 2 years ago in FictionFirst World Problems
The American passenger said angrily into his phone, ‘Within the blasted marmalade!’ Fahad glanced in the mirror, appraising the man for a sense of the words. What was he speaking of with such emotion? Why would an orange jam deserve such anger? The passenger was well-dressed for the heat, a businessman clearly, though his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and the tie dangled drunkenly. Dark hair, closely cut, a Movado at his wrist, wedding ring.
Bernard BleskePublished 2 years ago in Fiction- V+ Fiction Award Winner
Path of Least Resistance
In the morning, I took the little stone with me into the living room, where Keith was on the sofa, watching television. At the time, Keith and I lived in a downtown two bedroom, under the constant press of traffic, working factory and service jobs to pay the rent and buy the beer and all that lazy nothingness. A couple of college dropouts waiting for something to happen to us.
Bernard BleskePublished 2 years ago in Fiction California Bay Laurel
It needed something. Daphne stirred the pot again, took a sip from the spoon. Salt, pepper, thyme, a splash of red wine, the lamb stew was good. She wanted it outstanding. Tonight, her guests would feast on hummus, the stew, couscous, with harsh retsina to drink, thick coffee and baklava for dessert. Back in California now, after spending the summer on a dig sponsored by the University of California at Berkeley.
Michele J DrierPublished 2 years ago in FictionOrisha Obatala
A very long time ago, Olodumare, the God of all gods looked down from his golden throne in heaven. All he saw a vast area of emptiness and nothingness. He wanted more colour in the world and wanted to make you and me and all the rest of the beautiful people in the world today. So, he sent for all his sons and daughters the Orishas, they were the gods and goddesses that lived with Him in his big, beautiful palace in Heaven
Barbara OgunyemiPublished 2 years ago in FictionStill Life with Woman and Chateau
Still Life with Woman and Chateau There were sixty-five rooms in the house and Sarah Almant had a relationship with each of them. When her husband, the great moralist writer Arthur Almant died two decades before, she did not for a moment consider giving up the house; it was as much a part of her personal legacy and creative life as the magnificent alliance she'd shared with her husband for more than forty years. Besides, he was buried near the main house, and she could never conceive of a circumstance that would make it right to move him.
Robert RifkinPublished 2 years ago in FictionUnhappy Business
Here is a man. He is lying on a thin mattress in a windowless room whose cinderblock walls have the patina of leaves in need of pruning. The room is small, no bigger than an outhouse, complete with a metal toilet anchored to the concrete wall like a spile driven into the trunk of a maple tree. The man has lived in this room, or a room like it, for twenty-one years and in that time the space has become for him a metaphor for life: that, ultimately, we all must live with the stink and shit of what we create. Stink and shit are consequences. And consequences will pursue a man relentlessly, all the way to his deathbed, extracting its due till the bill is settled.
D. Diego TorresPublished 2 years ago in FictionAriadne and the Minotaur: Psychopathy Runs in Families
There are many ways to die in a labyrinth, but it is a misconception that the greatest danger is the risk of disorientation followed by starvation. Caves often contain food and water—provided you're not picky about what's on the menu. Better still, artificial labyrinths do not shape-shift; they have a set pattern, and if you know their secret, you can thread the correct course easily enough. Neither are traps, pits, accidents, nor monsters the most likely cause of death. No. Be it an artfully devised maze or naturally formed cavern—what you must respect if you want to make it out alive from the underground is distance: Every step you take into the labyrinth is one you'll have to take back out again. Lose track of your steps and you just might lose track of yourself.
Call Me LesPublished 2 years ago in FictionLucifer – 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 Fiction