Microfiction
The Genuine Proportion of Riches: An Example from Bill Entryways and a Paper Seller. Content Warning.
Charge Doors is known as the most extravagant individual on the planet. At some point, somebody asked him, "Is there anybody more extravagant than you on the planet?" Bill Doors answered, "Indeed, there is somebody who is more extravagant than I'm." He then proceeded to share a story.
By MD.KAMRUL HOSEN2 years ago in Fiction
The Unseen Terror
Friends and family stopped inviting Robert to the beach since he never showed up when they invited him for anything, whether it a swim, a picnic, or a party. I don't think he hated the sea. The salty water in his hair and the sand between his toes weren't it.
By Mmbone Agness2 years ago in Fiction
The Tome. Top Story - June 2024.
I wrote this story as part of my ko-fi based writing group's prompt for April 2024. It's inspired by a D&D party of mine, with Skylar being my own character from that game.Prompt: Everyone else is positive that the dusty, ancient tome you found on your last expedition is a long-lost spellbook, with the grimoire containing magics long thought lost to this world. You, however, are pretty sure it's just a cookbook. I also used this prompt as the basis for my Storytelling Collective Comics Challenge this year, so I'll share the comic at the end of this.
By Kelsey Clarey2 years ago in Fiction
Two Rubies
Teachers held the doors closed. Neighbors carried hateful signs and marched. Parents screams vulgarities. One mother swore to poison her. Students lined the concrete path that led to the double-doors that opened into our classrooms. Some jeered. Others threw things. A few spat. One taunted her with a baby doll in a coffin. All of them shouted.
By Christy Munson2 years ago in Fiction
Writer
The Writer Is Me I am a writer. I have never won any awards, or been nominated for any, but I am very successful. I often wonder would I trade my success for an award, and recognition for a Pulitzer or Booker prize, and then think no. I would rather be a successful writer, than an award-winning one living from paycheck to paycheck. This means that I have to write, and these days I find that very easy.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 2 years ago in Fiction
Mind Maps. Top Story - June 2024.
Lying on Momma's sofa, memories walk in, lead me astray, away from my safety net. Momma walks by, " You alright?"; " Mm", I say. I stare at my phone, she sits near with a crossword having no idea where my mind is at, or does she? I feel loathed, ugly, sad, broken. I don't want to go down the road to why my father left me; the road comes to me. I try to bypass this gnawing pathway, to avoid yield signs, run stop lights, push through the traffic in my brain; no can do. He's right in my face, saying, "Love you, be good, do your homework, okay?" then boarding his flight. I am sure he will be back as he always has been. He called every Sunday at eight p.m. sharp; the man was a machine. He used to read poetry to me over the phone when I was missing him, stuff he'd translated from some French dude, Rilke was it? I loved my father's eyes, all sad like a puppy; his generosity and good manners when we were out and about together had me looking up to him. Then I came out, questioning my gender identity. First to Momma cause, she's just easy with me, always. I plopped down at the foot of her bed and told her, " I feel like a girl inside." She said, " I understand." That was it. I was like, shit, this will be a breeze with Pops, too. He's like a puppy-dawg, a marshmallow cupcake who reads poetry. I wrote him an email; he wrote back, " I have to let it sink in awhile." Then for awhile there were guilt deposits from him into my bank account; five hundred dollars on my birthday, no contact, more money come Christmas, no contact. No answered emails. No returned phone calls. Momma got real mad, like frothing at the mouth rabid about it all. She tried to reach him, wrote him and said he was a cruel-assed bastard. She really wrote that. I look up, my eyes glide carefully from my phone screen to Momma mumbling to herself about 26 down on her crossword; she asks me if I know the answer, God knows I don't. I have no answers to anything. I shift a bit on the sofa and watch her. I know she is all I got. My inner road map is taking me home, right to her heart where I know I still belong.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
