Fable
The Lost Cities
Nana Hendrics was a plump old woman, who mostly laid in bed these days, or watched the news. Sometimes, she’d sit and make clothes for her children when the lights worked. Nowadays, the lights rarely worked. Most things in Atlantis did not work much anymore. Nana Hendricks was one of the few who recalled life before the sea took it all and swallowed the world whole. She recalled the sun on her face and sand between her toes at the beach. She remembered snow, and the chill in the air during fall. She remembered, and she told her daughter the stories of those last few years. Of memories long gone and mostly removed from the aquatic world they now lived in. She sat in her favorite chair, staring out the window to see the glass. They were one of the lucky ones; They had a house close to the walls and could see the seemingly endless deep blue of the ocean. They saw fish and sea life pass near them each day. When she was a girl, she'd been so enamored with it. She'd sit there for hours and stare at it all, watching the animals she could name.
Juliet NapierPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Golden Lockets
She woke, this young girl. She opened her eyes. It was quiet. It was still. Everything so perfectly quiet. Perfectly still.
Christian FennellPublished 3 years ago in FictionDe Capo
The old man cut a solemn figure as he walked through the dimly lit streets. He was squinting while examining the pavement beneath his feet.
The Picture Of Lula MayPublished 3 years ago in FictionAnother Journey Awaits
Once upon a time, there was a little girl with an adventurous spirit who dreamed of far-off places late at night. She created stories in her head that felt so real and called to her strongly she almost had no choice but to act upon them. Her soul longed for high peaks, for a view of the green valley below and a clear, blue sky over her head.
Cherry Bomb
Once upon a time it was the year 1866. A cherry bomb firecracker exploded. A scared Samantha scooted away from its direction. She bustled through large bushes of a backyard not wanting to be seen. After all a mouse seen, would be a mouse eaten. Food was scarce amongst the outlying villagers.
Hansel and Gretel
While this story should be terrifying as a child, it is one of my favorites. There are so many good things in it. For one who doesn't like a house made of baked goods? For two, how cute is it that this small boy takes care of his sister just to have her return the favor 10 fold by killing an angry old witch intent on having him for dinner. A lot of the stuff we read as kids was taken from pretty morbid stories of mistrust, lust, hate, murder and downright ruthless parents. This one however was left almost fully in tact when it was read to us as kids. So for your reading pleasure:
THE LONELY HEARTS
The students waited, a little noisy, for the final bell to ring, while their teacher, Miss Lockheart, sat at her desk, grading history papers. The bell rang. She raised her head to dismiss the impatient class, but found herself alone. All of her twenty students had disappeared. She looked at the clock on the wall, showing five-thirty pm. School had long been over.
Frankie Berry WisePublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Tortoise And The Princess
The Tortoise And The Princess I can remember that night so clearly. I can remember the soft pitter platter from the rain, the dim lighting and the static from the television. I don’t know where my parents were, but I can remember my brothers and me by my grandmother’s feet. I can remember the sound of her voice as she transported us to a land of animals and people. I can still hear her so clearly today, “Sunmo awon omo mi (come close my children)”, as she completely captured our attention. She told us numerous stories that night, but the one that always stuck to me and never faded even with time was that of the clever tortoise.
Seyi FeyisitanPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe False Anti-Christ
I remember when I first met her. I remember how we ran through the wild green prairies. I remember how she always had a smile on her face when she saw me. Now that I look back, it made sense when she would frown when I talked about our homelives or going home. Back then, I imagined that it was the reluctance of leaving her playtime like any other child would at the age of six. I saw her everyday during the summer from the time I was four until I was nine. My family would travel to the countryside during the summer for my father’s work for the government. She would always be waiting for me, hidden within the safety of the trees from the other side of the overly tall grassy meadow. She would come out as she saw me with the largest smile on her face and we would spend hours roaming the field, enjoying our childhoods. With how normal she seemed, I guess I never questioned it. I never knew what she was. I never in my life would have guessed that she was one of them.
Morgen FuentesPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Letter `
Dear person who has found my letter, My name is Whizbang, and I know what you must be thinking. Whizbang!? How could anyone have such a truly amazing name? I know. You see I named myself, or rather, renamed myself. The assigned name I was given at birth was Clarissa, which was less interesting and action-packed than Whizbang, if I do say so myself. Now, before you make it further into my letter, if you find yourself growing bored of what you read, or if you read something scary and makes your stomach twist, or if you are uncomfortable and wish to call the people in gold, then keep reading. This is the letter for you, dear reader.
Juliet NapierPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Witch's Spot
I have lived in very small town in Western New York all my life. The home where I grew up was surrounded by farmer fields that produced crops of beans, corn, squash and cabbage during the summer months an pumpkins and apples as fall approached. Along with the Dairy Farmers and few small local farm markets, there wasn't a whole lot this little town had to offer, one grocery store, a few pizza shops, a gas station, a liquor store pretty much summed up the town, which was always fine with me, I could never handle living in the city with all the noise and sirens and commotion.
Melanie SorocktiPublished 3 years ago in FictionBatfish
Singing batfish and cockatoos have more in common than most people think. The trick is to ignore the batfish’s reptilian dorsal fin (along with those claws, which, frankly, could gut a grizzly from snout to tail with a sneeze), and simply focus on the notes.
Julie TuoviPublished 3 years ago in Fiction