Humor
Anya's Secret Journey: Uncovering the Lost Athenaeum
Anya’s grandmother only took her to that place once· They had to claw their way through the bushes, her grandmother’s gnarled hand pushing aside branches and thorns while her other hand held Anya’s small, soft one· As an adult, Anya wondered how much that journey must have hurt her grandmother· Her swollen knees ached, and her bare feet surely protested every step of the way·
By Nada soliman2 years ago in Fiction
Onanismus cum Exegesi. Content Warning.
If you're reading this entry in your preferred digest of literary criticism, it's probably because you are a student of Guy de Mont Chalice and want to know as much about him as possible, via further study into the life of his third cousin, Gregory Shellaq. This thin article, then, will be an utter disappointment to you, as there is nothing more to know about the author of Grendal's Progress, Adolescence in Constantinople, A Queen's Reverie, and Forgetful Minions of Flower's Last Dance. By now you've read Watson, you've read Everly, you've read Tates. If you haven't, do so. And once you have, come back to this page, and be assured: you have it all. So stop reading, put this rag down at once, and go chase women or sniff daffodils or do whatever your sort of person does.
By Jason Edwards2 years ago in Fiction
Unknown Caller
Jenny was snuggled on the couch she had for years. A tattered blanket she’d yet to throw out covered the lower half of her body. She watched the screen just a few feet away from where she sat. The horror show flashed gruesome scenes that made her cower from fear. As the show ended, she let out a reassured breath as the names graced the screen. But before she was able to get too comfortable, the show popped up one last scare that had Jenny bump the mug she had on the table next to her. She was grateful that the cup was empty and went to grab what she had dropped. Before Jenny was able to put the mug back on the table, her cell phone started to buzz loudly. Unexpected, she dropped the cup once more, as her hand went over her heart.
By Timberly Price2 years ago in Fiction
Death by Panda
She had to get this presentation right. Do a shit job? It could all go tits up. God, she was tired. She'd been looking at the screen forever, trying to wrangle boring facts and statistics into something that was entertaining. She just couldn't do it.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
The Bouquiniste
"Going once...going twice...I'm selling at 10,000 to the gentleman in white...at 10,000 pounds....sold!" And the gavel came down as the Bouquiniste let out his sigh of relief. Monty preferred this title to "second-hand bookseller". French always lent something more prestige: patissier/pastry chef; maître d'/bloke who greets you at the door; the list could go on and on. The title, bouquiniste had ties to the famous booksellers on the Seine and although he had no French lineage that he knew of, his surname being Dobbs, (perhaps that should be Daubés?), he knew his trade just as well.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
The Artist
He hadn't meant to start drawing her. While he was up a ladder, trimming the hawthorn whose straggly branches always threatened to encroach on others, he spotted her. She was sat, holding a carrot, trying to entice a rabbit nibbling her lawn. Her hair was glossy, golden, silky and she had to keep pushing it behind her ear, which she did slowly and with great smoothness, so as not to alarm her quarry.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
**Evil House**
For generations, the dilapidated mansion had stood on the outskirts of the town, its overgrown grounds and decaying façade a sharp contrast to the immaculate homes in the area. Nobody dared to go there after sundown; it was a land of terrible tales and whispered legends. They said that evil itself lived inside the house and that it was cursed. To Emily, though, it was an alluring enigma.
By Abdul Qayyum2 years ago in Fiction
