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Sense and Sensibility Movie Review
Sense and Sensibility, one of Jane Austen’s best-known stories, has been adapted many times through the decades; most notably as a 1995 classic and then a 2008 mini-series. Newcomer director Georgia Oakley has produced a third rendition; it’s an admirable production that sits below its superior predecessors.
By Robert Cain9 days ago in Fiction
Apparition of Desires
I found myself in a recurring dream. The one where I’m naked. Not naked in the grocery store but naked at the dry cleaners. Everyone in line holding their ticket is shouting, me, me, me. Fully clothed and faceless with familiar voices. I recognized yours. It was that spring or maybe it was early summer when the mayflies were extreme. Blanketing the ground and buildings like snow, I had never seen so many. On the beach alone, you said you would never tire of how the moon lit the hair on the back of my head. In the dry cleaners I covered my privates so people wouldn't heckle and snicker at my shame. Next in line I began to unzip the zipper under my chin. Zipped down through my abdomen. Carefully under and down through to the inseam of my left leg. All the way down to my heel. I remove my flesh from its bones, like I was peeling off a onesie. How a mechanic releases himself at the end of a day from his coveralls. The blood coursing through my veins like neon. Lungs expanding and contracting with every breath in this space we share. You're here, I know you are, I can hear you. My skull and rib cage exposed, along with my spine and pelvis. The guts, muscles and organs revealed to the faceless standing in line. You're faceless but I can hear you. I hand the woman my suit of skin, asked for the one-hour service. She said the stain on the center of my chest may be hard to remove. I lied and said it was from coffee. Stood to the side exposing my innermost self. Waited in silence surrounded by the girth of rich men with rhino horns in their William Westmancott suits. This is where the dream really takes a turn. On the beach wading into the ocean. A whirlpool I couldn’t resist draws me in and under. The ceiling of my bedroom becomes the ocean. I look up from my bed, rays of light spear down penetrating the surface illuminating a hovering silhouette. I am that silhouette near the surface floating effortlessly looking down at myself sleeping below. I thought I saw you hovering above me, looking down at me, except it was my eyes inside of you looking down at me. Part of me seeing you and part of me seeing me through you. The mayflies cover me like skin. I don’t know if they’re protecting me or dying with me. Your voice is gone now. You’re nowhere in sight, I woke, a little feverish, a little not knowing. Not knowing for a moment where I am. I covered myself, my skin, it’s all here, dazed a little, I’m still complete.
By Gerry Thibeault10 days ago in Fiction
Broken: An Abuse Survivor's Tale💜Part 1. Content Warning.
This story was written a year ago on a different platform, but I uploaded it here a while back. I felt insecure about the story as it was a very...specific kind of tale, so I ended up deleting it. Well, since then, I have grown a lot as a writer, and I don't feel those insecurities anymore. Enjoy!
By Rain Dayze10 days ago in Fiction
THE WAY HOME
The digital clock above the Tube station flickered, signalling the last minute before midnight. Jack Weary walked among the tired crowd, eager to catch the last train home after a long day at work. As he glanced at the clock, a sense of urgency washed over him. One minute left to get to the platform. He needed to catch this last Tube or risk being stranded in the city overnight.
By Christian Bass11 days ago in Fiction
THE UNINVITED TABLE
You know a house is occupied when the lights are on. That is the first thing you think when you turn into the driveway. The Bellweather House has been dark for forty-two years, vacant since October 17, 1984. You know this because the county records say so; because other realtors have tried to sell it and failed. You know it because every photograph in the listing shows the same dead windows, sagging porch, weeds climbing through cracks in the driveway.
By Eric Brooks12 days ago in Fiction
The Pink Sari
The Pink Sari My first husband was Indian and I am English. I was only sixteen when we married. One day he decided to go out shopping to buy me a surprise. He went into Bolton where there were lots of Indian shops. I stayed at home wondering what on earth he was going to bring back.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 13 days ago in Fiction
Two Birds
You see there were these two birds who were flying around the sky looking for just the perfect place to light. They saw trees of varying heights and well as bushes that were way too small. They saw this batch of flowers in a bush high on a hill. The soared above this area several times just to make sure no other animals had claimed it. No one has claimed this spot of multi-colored flowers that seem to match their colorings as well. They have found their Home Sweet Home and swooped down to make their claim to living together.
By Mark Graham13 days ago in Fiction
In a Yellow Wood
It’s 3:15 in the afternoon, you check the clock again. Wondering if he’s alright. A gnaw in the pit of your stomach like every weekday afternoon. What if she’s trying to get back in his life again? Would she do that behind your back? You don’t trust her not to, so you set out the pizza rolls on a pan and stick them in the oven. 3:16, he’s late. Then you go to the living room and peek out through the curtains. There he is, standing there talking to the girl from down the street. She’s a cute girl and you notice the way Michael blushes as she twirls her hair around her finger. He’s not on his bike; he’s holding the handles as if he walked it home instead of riding it. Probably to walk alongside her. You look down the sidewalk and see another kid, head down, hands in his hoodie pockets. A loner. You can relate; you didn’t have many friends growing up either. That’s probably what made you so easy for your ex. She wrapped you around all five fingers and some toes. Someone, especially someone that beautiful, gave you attention. That was all it took. The kid with the hoodie looks up, directly at you, making eye contact. You duck back inside. But not before you saw little Suzie or whatever her name is down the street give your son Michael a peck on the cheek. He was bright red. You rush back to the kitchen.
By Raine Fielder14 days ago in Fiction
The Dust Between Us. Content Warning.
Preamble : I almost forgot about Sasha's fun challenge. But I had a few moments to spare and decided to dive into L.C'.s wondrous portfolio of stories, where I found her drabble, "Unnatural" As I'm a massive fan of her work and she's a good pal, I decided to be mercilessly Paul in my mangling of her rather poignant tale.
By Paul Stewart14 days ago in Fiction
