Classical
Within the Dominion of Dreams
Everything is at peace. Only the babbling of the brooks we encounter and the faint chirping of birds is heard. A passing hum of the wind through the trees as it swept between their boughs, heavily laden with fruits and leaves; the grass whispering and waving. I feel its blades brush at my knees as I walk upon an earth unlike the one I’ve known, a world about me that is at peace. The sky, an iridescent blue, appears as an overarching crystal. The clouds are feathery, drifting carelessly, amidst a dream of their own. And while no fellow companion is to be found, I am not alone. As I cross the field, their presence remains with me. A presence of a spirit - a timeless creature. They bear no distinguishing features, and are shrouded with a heavy cloak. It floats about them as if spirit and shroud are one. At times I see them; at times I do not. We speak to each other as if we have known each other for a long time.
By Karis Wnuk2 years ago in Fiction
The Man in the Dolia
It was all bones. He was all bones. Bones and dust and remnants of a civilization long past. Yet even after all those years, the man in the dolia still lived. In part. In spirit. He lived and wandered as an echo of tragedy. Not of war or deceit, but disaster by fire, water, and time. He hadn’t died the day when the mountain came crashing down. That was a different matter entirely.
By M.E. Royce2 years ago in Fiction
Vision
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.
By Alex Jennett2 years ago in Fiction
The 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.
By Elizabeth Cordes2 years ago in Fiction
First 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.
By Bernard Bleske2 years ago in Fiction
Path of Least Resistance. V+ Fiction Award Winner.
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.
By Bernard Bleske2 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.
By Michele J Drier2 years ago in Fiction
Orisha 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
By Barbara Ogunyemi2 years ago in Fiction
Still 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.
By Robert Rifkin3 years ago in Fiction
Unhappy 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.
By D. Diego Torres3 years ago in Fiction