Short Story
Weep Ye Not
‘I need to tell you something, sweetie.’ Granny’s voice sounds unusually serious. I look up from where I’m sitting on the floor surrounded by my favourite dolls. She remains settled in her chair, hands folded on her lap, the motionless bulk of her body like a statue against the light coming through the window behind her. What is it that she wants to tell me?
By K.D. Popiel2 years ago in Fiction
Finale Fortissimo
“You’re obsessed,” Judy said. “I’m not.” But Paul’s voice sounded hollow. The small talk of the past hour had finally ended, and he was thankful more than upset. He’d sensed Judy was irritated about something, and it was a relief to have her finally spit it out.
By Alison McBain2 years ago in Fiction
One Lazy Sunday. Content Warning.
The late Sunday afternoon sun was bright and warm. Her blue eyes looked glassy and staring, honey-coloured hair full of sunshine. She was turned slightly towards him, her right hip rising up out of the grass and feet stretched out towards the brook. The boy sat beside her facing it, knees bent, arms resting across them. A cigarette hung between his fingers.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
I Should Have Kept Them Open
I live in a strange simplicity, a cycle that seems to never end. When I open my eyes, there is only darkness. It encloses me, keeps me here, living in stale, still air; it is how I live. When I close my eyes, I see the same thing: a white silken fabric inches from my face; it is the only thing I dream of. When I touch it, there is comfort from a familiarity that I can't explain; it is the only thing I am able to feel. Other times, as sweat runs down my skin, I dream of the beautiful silk soaked in blood that drips and drips and drips.
By K. Kocheryan2 years ago in Fiction
Dreams of Fish. Runner-up in 3:00 AM Challenge.
“I been havin’ a strange dream, for weeks, Nana.” “Hmm…” Nana’s slender, wrinkled hands are slow but efficient. One by one, she fishes the pods out of the calabash, presses the center to separate the shells and shakes the cream-colored pigeon peas into an old pot.
By Lily Séjor2 years ago in Fiction
Is Revival Always Good?
Hampson was a quaint village in the heart of eastern Maine, far from the hustle and bustle of economic activity and tourism that created enthusiasm for residents. "You can't get there from here" is a popular phrase among Mainers everywhere, but it was especially true of Hampson. It didn't seem to be connected to anything. However, it was just large enough to have an elementary and middle school, and whatever social activities could be found in the town happened there.
By Mack D. Ames2 years ago in Fiction
a night full of darkness. Content Warning.
Dark, silent, and terrifying. These three words describe my feelings right now. Alone in the dark room, I close my ears and try not to hear anything. Because currently, there is a monster that often enters my house, making the atmosphere frightening. My mother always told me that if the monster came, I should go into my room and cover my ears so I wouldn't suffer too much. The monster often beats my mother at night. Maybe that's why she doesn't want me to hear or see the pain she endures.
By Naufal Asysyauqi2 years ago in Fiction
The Journey of Whispering Winds
Once a long time ago in a place beyond the normal understood geography there was a magical forest referred to as the Enchanted Woods. This was not like any other forest in the world; it was a land of enchantment where even the trees and the leaves and the animals had their own stories to narrate. That is where our story picks up – Lyra, a young girl who desired to go on an adventure and find a place further than the edge of her mundane existence.
By Moon Ghosh 2 years ago in Fiction
Hic Sunt Dracones
I've been dreaming of dragons for as long as I can remember. It’s difficult to say when and how it started. My mother used to say that my legs tended to jerk rapidly in my sleep when I was a baby. So maybe the beasts chased me even before I could walk? My own memories don’t explain anything either. All dreams merge into a long string of chases, desperate searches for cover, running, hot breaths almost searing my back, and then waking up screaming, covered in sweat, entangled in blankets. Sometimes on the floor next to my bed.
By K.D. Popiel2 years ago in Fiction
