Fable
Escaping The Rivers Of Styx
She died in my arms today at 11:11am. I made it back just in time to hold her and watch the foam rise from her mouth like some sick parasite consuming her. My heart shattered into a million pieces at that moment. I should have been there for her, I should have seen the signs. The last thing she left behind was a poem.
By Kenneth cruz3 years ago in Fiction
A bedtime story
Once upon a time a long time ago their lived a beautiful fairy by the name of Marigold, or Mari for short. Mari, like most fairy's, lived in the garden. Specifically in a pear tree. It was a beautiful slender tree with fat juicy red pears at the end of summer that all of the girls and boys loved to pluck and eat and any that they left behind became feasts for the bunnies and squirrelies and wormies.
By Miriam Rhodes3 years ago in Fiction
The Pear Tree
The courtyard was buzzing with life as Eren sat at his window. His room was high up, and he had a clear view of everybody going about their business, unaware that they were being watched. There was Lottie sitting at the fountain, singing to a girl as she braided her long hair, and on the other side of the fountain, a multitude of doves ate a handful of breadcrumbs as a young man painted a picture of them. Eren recognized him. It was his friend, Solomon, who was trying to get into a prestigious art school. Across from them, an acquaintance named Jonas did stretches before running laps around the courtyard to prepare for an upcoming race. There were others – some familiar and others foreign – that made up the vibrant collection of people in the beautiful courtyard, and with the diverse group came an array of hobbies that Eren loved to observe before running errands in the neighboring town.
By Patricia L.3 years ago in Fiction
A very old story
My grandma used to tell us a story when we were kids. My siblings, my cousins, and I would sit in a semicircle and listen to her soft and deep voice as she would narrate a story that was passed on to her and her siblings from her grandmother. A story as old as Nature herself, she would claim. We didn’t know how old that was, but we imagined it was something like grandma’s age multiplied by one hundred —or something like that. What did we know? It didn’t matter. We liked listening to her telling it.
By Natalia Perez Wahlberg3 years ago in Fiction
Naming the Serpent
The creature slithered down to her, its scales gliding over the rough branches of the Forbidden Tree, tongue flicking in and out with a teasing rhythm at the heavy pears loading the branches. Tear shaped leaves scattered sunlight across its curved back, scales sparkling like the diamonds her Father had shown her. Every movement the creature made was a picture of mountains at sunset, every sway an iris blooming to face the dawn.
By Jordan Marshall3 years ago in Fiction
my favorite neighbor
I can see why he chose to live in the pear tree. The intricate veins of its leaves, the way the sun shines through them to warm your body as you rest on a branch, the sweet taste of its speckled fruit, the deep roots that promise security and stability. It’s the most beautiful spot in the neighborhood.
By Mara Marques 3 years ago in Fiction
Indoor gardening
On the south side of the house, in the petty part of the yard, there is a small garden. The garden grows cucumbers, mugwort, lavender, carrots, tomatoes, and marigolds. The Peartree grows in that same plot too. In the springtime, the bed gets made again and the earthy smell gets trapped and rescued under the nail beds of Henry. Kate watches him from the study, as Henry takes the seeds from the packet and plunges them into the dirt, covers it, and presses his hands on the top of the soil almost like kneading dough. And then moves to the next, Kate is unsure if he plans out a pattern prior to the planting or if he simply moves without thought. She often feels like she is watching something secret like she’s watching him change his clothes or something. It feels intimate, but it’s gardening, she reassured herself, surely this is fine. Kate’s condition didn’t allow her much time outside. Her mother told her that the fresh air was only suitable in small doses, however, when she did have outings it was invigorating, and thought that her passing out was simply a sign of that. The pear tree was always a peculiar tree to her, the trunk so rough and squat, and this one was particularly pear-shaped in its foliage, the white blossoms would aromate the space, and she would crack the window just a touch brings her face down to the sill and inhale deeply, once her mother walked in and Kate was able to pretend she was tying her shoe, not sniffing the magnificent smell that wafted over in the warming midday sun. She often imagined that smell wrapping around her like a gauzy white cloak or blanket like the one that she had had as a baby, the waffled texture bringing weight to the blanket that was otherwise not there at all. She felt safe and bigger than she was somehow.
By Claire Hunter3 years ago in Fiction
If Only Pear Could Talk
A big beautiful spreading pear proudly stood in the middle of the family backyard. It was not the only fruit tree there, there were also apple, mulberry and tart cherry trees. It was not the oldest in the family’s little orchard, that would be the two mulberries, but the pear tree was the biggest and obviously the most valuable as it sat right in the center, providing shade for a big part of the backyard. It had been planted by the patriarch of the family, a father of two girls at the time, in 1951, to celebrate finishing the construction of the main house on his little farm. In more than 40 years of its existence, the pear tree saw a lot of the family life and the way the village changed.
By Lana V Lynx3 years ago in Fiction