Series
The Candidate: Part 1
The Candidate: 1 The last four months of Gabrielle's presidential campaign have been rough. She knew it would be, but it was still difficult. The attack ads went after her voting record, old views that haven't aged well, and the fact her birth name was originally Gabriella Garcia. For her, the white-washing allegations hurt the most, mostly because she was only doing what she had learned to do by America since she was a little girl. It wasn't her fault poles approved of the name change during the primaries. Yet she still felt the same unease of being on the outskirts of acceptance. As a congresswoman, she was used to having to prove herself, but to be shamed for doing what she was expected, what her opponents expected of minorities, that was disrespectful.
By Conor Matthews3 years ago in Fiction
World in Tatters Ch 23
I lean back against the wall between our doors, letting my weight slide down to the floor. I’m careful not to make any noise. I don’t want to disturb the others. I feel my head swimming from all the alcohol. As I sit there listening to Alice and Rachel talking, I hear the faint purr from the other side of their door. Rachel’s obnoxious cat must have found himself a nice warm spot for the night.
By Kevin Barkman3 years ago in Fiction
Battling Guilt Part 8: Rescue Attempt
Petra's heart was palpating and her brow was dripping with beads of sweat by the time she reached the top of the building. Not because she over exerted herself; her super-human strength for the most part prevented her from feeling the typical affects of over-exertion. No, she wasn't tired. She was nervous. She hadn't seen nor spoke to Ivan for months, despite his attempts at contacting her.
By dre.amerwithapen3 years ago in Fiction
Classification
In the eerie town of Hollowhaven, nestled between ancient forests and mist-covered mountains, a mysterious classification known only as "The Veiled Enigma" unfolds. As darkness descends upon the unsuspecting town, peculiar occurrences manifest – cryptic symbols etched into the bark of ancient trees, spectral whispers echoing through abandoned alleyways, and a foreboding mist that blankets the streets. Investigative journalist Emma Carter, drawn by the enigma's ominous allure, begins to unravel a centuries-old secret that binds Hollowhaven to an otherworldly realm. The townsfolk, gripped by fear, guard their dark history like a coveted relic. As Emma delves deeper, she uncovers a malevolent force that hungers for retribution, unleashing nightmarish apparitions and long-buried nightmares. The clock ticks relentlessly as she races against the supernatural tide, her sanity tested and her reality shattered. In her pursuit of truth, Emma unearths a forgotten cult and a pact made with the spectral entities that haunt Hollowhaven. The town's fate hangs in the balance as the barrier between the living and the malevolent unknown weakens. Armed with newfound allies, ancient artifacts, and her unwavering determination, Emma must confront the Veiled Enigma before the spectral forces claim Hollowhaven as their eternal domain. The chilling climax unveils a revelation that transcends the boundaries of mortal comprehension, leaving Emma to navigate the thin line between reality and the abyss. "The Veiled Enigma" stands as a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, battling against forces that defy the very fabric of existence.
By J.Balakrishnan3 years ago in Fiction
"You Can't Handle the Truth!"
Her sign was Aquarius, so she consulted her horoscope: In spite of thinking you're innovative, progressive, and even revolutionary, you are no model Aquarius. You're unable to romantically link with any compatible fire or air signs. You're supposed to be independent, but you're 34 and still live in your parents' basement. You really should just give up. The water bearer, the great mystical healer who bestows life, is ashamed of you. Especially after yesterday.
By Gerard DiLeo3 years ago in Fiction
Grow Old With Me
Once upon a time I was twice upon a time. Some people have lived previous lives. I don't know if that's true, but I know I have lived another life. The reason I know is that it's because I didn't die and then get reborn, i.e., become reincarnated. My two distinct lives overlap. Now. In real time. And very tightly.
By Gerard DiLeo3 years ago in Fiction
The Mother
Why doesn't she flame? Why doesn't she take back her baby and burn me to a crisp, and the whole forest with me? Her enormous black snout inched through the circle, from her world to ours. Her long neck snaked behind it. The obsidian bulk of her beyond that blocked any view I might have had of the world where dragons live.
By L.C. Schäfer3 years ago in Fiction
One Writer
One Writer A writer sits in front of an antique typewriter, ready to pour his thoughts onto paper: "Writing was my lifeline, the very thing that saved me from the depths of despair. Yet, I didn't write about trivial matters or indulge in the ridiculousness of love letters penned for unrequited affections. Words became my refuge, a sanctuary from the pain and anguish that plagued my existence. As a shy teenager with seemingly no prospects in life, I became a dreamer. A dreamer who would weep and beseech the moon to deliver the essence of my words, so I could tend to them with greater care. These words I wrote became my only flame, providing warmth in the face of the world's coldness. They acted as a protective shield against the venomous words of the women on the bus, who sought to pry into my life and label me as insignificant. Their hurtful remarks echoed sentiments that had only been expressed by one person before. And so, I transformed these women into the greatest villains within my poems and short stories, finding joy in their demise and giving my life a satisfying conclusion. In reality, I severed ties with my predetermined destiny, leaving those women on the bus to spew venom amongst themselves while I forged my own path. All of this and more, being a dreamer and a writer, was akin to granting wings to a condor, allowing it to soar far above the vultures. I discovered that I held control over my own destiny if I fought tirelessly, never relinquishing my beliefs. Compiling all my words and crafting a book in 2019 also played a crucial role in my salvation. The dream I aspired to was grander than ever, and the pursuit of that dream continues to this day. The struggle is ongoing, a constant reminder of my unwavering commitment to what I have written and the incomplete work that lies before me. I realized that if I am willing to fight until the end, without surrendering my beliefs, I hold the power to shape my own destiny. Piecing together the words and birthing a book in 2019 was a salvation in itself. The dream, however, reaches far beyond that milestone. The fight for my dream is far from over, and I embrace the perpetual struggle as a testament of my love for what I have written and the work that remains unfinished. If you have experienced the same, then you know that words hold the power to heal. They possess the cure within their very essence. So, cry, smile, and fight. Be the architect of your own world, one that brings harmony to our own. Write the words that can save you from a fate you do not desire. Sketch the destination you wish to reach. Have you felt the same? If so, then embrace the power of words as your remedy. The cure lies within the act of writing." As the typewriter emits its final sound, the writer removes the sheet, crumples it, and tosses it into the trash can. Frustration seeps in. "This is what the world does to all writers," the writer laments. "Come to me now with your hollow flattery, and I will discard it just as I did this crumpled page. How cruel you are." The writer closes the typewriter, placing it within a box of memories, and steps out onto the balcony to savor the last sips of his mint tea, seeking solace in the tranquility of the moment.
By Antonio Madrugada3 years ago in Fiction
