Excerpt
My Song
Sicily | 1943 Under a firm mutual agreement of trust, the misfitted group of four banded together to clean up their mess. Corrado helped Father Burgio gather the dead bodies of the Italian soldiers, and Rosalie helped Garret give Private Hale a temporary burial - which consisted of blanketing him with a few layers thick sheets - until Garret was able to get his body back into the hands of the American military.
The Journey of a Lost Note
The Journey of a Lost Note I am a small slip of paper, once part of a larger whole. My journey began in the bustling city, where I was carried on the whims of the wind, a silent observer of the world around me. From the heights of skyscrapers to the depths of subway tunnels, I traveled far and wide, my edges worn by the touch of countless hands.
Mediocracy
The point of having a goal is to achieve something. Yet, for all the goals I have made in my life, I haven’t achieved a damn thing. I’m starting to wonder what roles dreaming and goal setting play in my daily life. When I was five, I decided to be the fastest kid on the peewee soccer team. Didn’t manage that one. My mother was asked to take me off the team for tripping my teammates during games. I figured if I couldn’t get to the ball, no one could. At eight years old, I would try out for the community theater musical. They were putting on Oliver, and I was dead set on being the show’s namesake. Turns out I can’t sing a note, so they put me in the ensemble with the other boys who were too young, too old, or too talentless to be the lead. Pubescent voice cracks, hairy chins, and bad BO filled the cast, so I never auditioned again. When I turned fifteen, my mom signed me up to work at a sleepaway camp the following summer. The goal was to earn income and learn important life skills in the process. The job lasted two weeks. Between losing one of the smaller campers for a very brief period of four hours and the uninformed decision to take a swim break while on a hike that resulted in the entire bunk getting covered in leeches… it was clear I wasn’t a good fit. They let me go and mailed me my first and last check.
Afterglow
The evening sun broke through the late summer clouds, slowly rousing me, but I did not open my eyes. For a moment longer. I wanted to linger in the happy fantasy that I would not be alone. That for once, she would still be there when I woke.
Alexander McEvoyPublished 5 months ago in FictionBrothers of Black Stone | Pt. 3
Sicily | July 10th | 1943 Garret used the combat knife to cut a slit in the fabric of Tim’s pants, and revealed the gunshot wound. Without any syrettes, there was nothing he could do to lessen the pain, but that mattered little. Tim’s paleness and lack of awareness were tell-tale signs of shock, and the bullet unfortunately severed his femoral artery. There was nothing he could do. Garret held his friend’s hands in his own, and stayed with him until his eyes rolled back, exposing their white bellies. He stayed with Tim until the end.
The Hunter
Lying here, in silver twisted twilight’s fate. Face staring up at the sky. The world froze to my face. The pain, inescapable.
Atomic HistorianPublished 5 months ago in FictionImpressions On Ice
In the Appalachian mountains, deep in the forest of the craggy rocky tops, a dark-haired woman stepped out of the cave she'd taken refuge in during the snowstorm that had struck last night. It was the coldest time of year.
Hope MartinPublished 5 months ago in Fictionthere's music out there
Have you heard the snow? Drank its waters from the ice hole four feet deep? There’s clarity to this element, gentleness in feather-falling flakes that drift effortlessly.
Oneg In The ArcticPublished 5 months ago in FictionHerald of Winter's Chill
Eira Astair, a bard by trade, stood outside the Alabaster Arrow, pouting. Her performance had not gone as planned, but it was far from the worst she had ever given. She took solace in that, breathing deep the chill night air. Drifts of fresh-fallen snow blew gently in the light wind. Eira was at home in the icy chill of newly fallen snow. A winter spirit, the cold did not bother her like other mortals. Holding her hand to catch a few flakes, they didn’t melt. The cold was why she ventured to Illux City in the first place. It was mesmerizing this time of year, with its towers covered in glittering frost and ice. Walking with her lute in hand, she begins plucking a few strings.
S.N. EvansPublished 5 months ago in FictionSee The Dawn
The stories continue. L.C. Schäfer started this! She is to blame. You can find out about this here: Prompt number twenty-two:
Rachel DeemingPublished 5 months ago in FictionThe Sow Bear
She knew it was a dream, but not for lack of realistic feeling. She looked down at massive bear paws that sunk into the snow, and the breath that fogged ahead of her snout.
S. C. AlmanzarPublished 5 months ago in FictionSilver Mornings
Wings formed a leathery tent above her head. The combined heat of three massive bodies had melted the snow and the seat of her britches was wet. Rowyn sighed and sullenly pushed her way out from her cove of dragon breath. The world was washed anew in white. The evergreens wore a fresh dress that drifted in fluffy mounds to the ground, rich as velvet and just as soft. The morning light could not pierce the retreating storm clouds, instead diffusing into a gentle silver; so gentle that no shadows could find purchase, slipping and scattering into the gray under the trees.
M. A. MehanPublished 5 months ago in Fiction